


Pas de Deux

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Curses, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Humor, Literary References & Allusions, Magical Artifacts, Partnership, Romance, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-04
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple class assignment poses a challenge and starts a small war!</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Play's the Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Dramione Awards, Round Five: Winner, _Best Mid-Length_
> 
> Dramione Awards, Round Three: Runner-Up, _Best Head Boy/Head Girl_
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

  


 

 

Chapter One: The Play’s the Thing

 

 

It began with the codpiece.

 

The Muggle Studies class had taken a detour from a discussion of the monarchy during the Renaissance to an examination of various aspects of 16th-century culture and had finally wound up focusing on the fashions of the times. Muggle Studies had acquired the reputation, deserved or otherwise, of a course that could be aced while semi-conscious, and about two thirds of the seventh-years who sat here on this day were there for that reason. The rest, seventh-years and younger, were merely curious.

“Quite naturally, the landed gentry dressed rather differently to the common folk, farmers and people in trade and such. And of course, those at court were a step above that in terms of the richness of their clothing. Here, have a look at this,” said Professor Fitzherbert. He was a tall, reed-thin man of indeterminate middle age with a markedly receding hairline, his remaining hair flowing in long, shoulder-length, silver locks and drawn back into an elegant ponytail. He wore a 1930s-style, pencil-thin moustache and a diamond stud in his left ear, and his rather piercing gaze seemed always to obscure his real thoughts even as it penetrated those of others. Several female faculty members seemed rather mesmerised by him, not to mention a number of girls. The male population of the school was convinced he was a poof.

Professor Fitzherbert held up a photograph from a book procured from the British Museum, tapping it with his wand after a quick “ _Engorgio!_ ” Instantly, the photo was four times its normal size. It was a drawing depicting a man in court dress, circa 1520.

He cleared his throat amidst mutterings from the class. “Ah…yes…note the collar, known as a ‘ruff’—that was quite the fashion at the time. The finer the lace, the higher the status of the wearer. This was true for men as well as women, of course. And then, we have the waistcoat with separated sleeves, doublet, breeches, hose, and leather shoes, a coat and hat.” He tapped the photo with his wand once again and the gentleman within bowed, doffing his broad-brimmed, be-feathered hat with a flourish.

“Uh…Professor…what’s that…er… _thing_ he’s got…you know…covering his privates?” Draco Malfoy’s barely contained snicker set off a series of answering snorts and giggles amongst the Slytherins seated at a cluster of three tables. Not that the rest of the class, the male members in particular, were keeping their own sniggers very quiet either.

Professor Fitzherbert paused for a fraction of a second, with just a hint of a smile curving his lips. “A codpiece, of course. As I am sure you were already very well aware, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco looked around at his cronies, smirking, though a faint tinge of colour had appeared high on his cheeks.

“A _what_ , Professor?” That from Seamus Finnegan.

“Cod. Piece.” Fitzherbert kept a straight face as he enunciated the word very deliberately. “Here.” He took his wand and positioned it delicately just above the groin in the drawing. A number of the girls were blushing now, as they watched, fascinated. Naughty underwear wasn’t something that generally came up in lessons at Hogwarts.

“It came into fashion out of necessity, really, in the 15th century,” the professor continued. “Men were wearing hose—tights, as we call them now— and fashion dictated that they be quite form-fitting, But of course, an opening had to be made in them to allow for nature’s call and…shall we say…various other sorts of activities…”

More sniggering, poking, and mutterings..

“Too right I would have…” “Shut it, you wanker… _it is so_...”

“ _As_ I was saying,” Fitzherbert interjected, biting back what threatened to become a rather rakish grin. He was having fun with this. “Because of this, and because a law was passed in 1482, prohibiting men’s genitals from simply hanging out—which, prior to that, they had done quite freely, only covered by the doublet-- the idea for a sort of covering for one’s bits came into being. Hence the codpiece, in the late 15th century. It allowed the hose to remain snug whilst covering the necessary access area. Over time, it became quite the fashion statement in itself, and some codpieces were quite elaborately stitched and bejeweled, and eventually, even stuffed with padding so as to accentuate the wearer’s goods even more.” He casually picked up several more drawings, Enlarged them, and held them up. “As you see here.”

The class’ frank interest was punctuated by titters as they stared at pictures of a rather dazzling array of codpieces, each one more elaborate than its predecessor.

“I don’t care if it _was_ the fashion! Bloody stupid!” Vincent Crabbe proclaimed. “Wouldn’t be caught dead in tights and one of _those_ things!”

“For which the entire female population is grateful, no doubt,” Draco drawled. “I actually rather fancy one, I think.”

“You would!” Ron muttered.

“As the saying goes, if you’ve got it …” Draco replied smoothly. “Pity, though, Weasel. Yours wouldn’t even fill a teacup, much less one of that lot.”

“Oh, Ron, ignore him! He’s just being…Malfoy!” Hermione hissed, exasperated, as her friend turned quite red in the face, his chair scraping back a fraction of an inch. She turned to stare at Draco, her expression clearly annoyed. He merely flashed her a plainly lascivious grin and winked impudently.

Two spots of pink burned high on Hermione’s cheeks. Just who did he think he was anyway, giving her a look like that? It was obvious he was trying to make a fool out of her. She knew with certainty that there was no way he could seriously be flirting with her, even in such a crude manner. He must be suggesting quite the opposite, in fact—that he found her utterly disgusting and wanted to rub her face in it, make certain she _knew_ he felt that way. _Ugh._ She shook herself, as if in doing so she could rid herself of a thought that was making her skin crawl. The very idea…how could she have entertained it even for a moment? And why in Merlin’s name would she even _want_ to? Ridiculous!

She was brought back to the present by the voice of her teacher. She looked up, grabbed her quill, and whispered to Padma, “What did I miss?”

“I think you’ll find, Miss Granger, that had you been paying attention, you’d know the answer to that question and there would be no need to ask.” Professor Fitzherbert stood at her shoulder and gazed down at her. His expression remained impassive.

Hermione felt a hot flush creep up from her neck and suffuse her face. She stared straight ahead as the professor made his way back to the lectern, his long, silver hair glinting in the afternoon sun that slanted in through the high windows. And then something made her skin prickle and she felt compelled to turn her head and look.

He was doing it _again_. That same nasty, suggestive smirk. But this time he blew her a kiss as well. She snapped her head back, her eyes riveted on whatever was straight ahead, and wished for nothing more than to disappear into a hole that would blessedly open beneath her chair and swallow her up.

Draco laughed softly and turned back to his own quill and parchment. Granger was so easy to rile. It was almost pathetically simple—and so much fun-- to get under her skin. Of course, he had to admit that being able to rattle Hermione Granger was just the icing on the cake. Her true conquest would be much more difficult. Then again, he did enjoy the more challenging and elusive ones even more than the ones who virtually served themselves up on a platter.

Professor Fitzherbert cleared his throat and tapped his wand against the lectern to garner everyone’s wandering attention.

“Today’s discussion has given me a wonderful idea for your term project. Absolutely inspired, actually.”

Everyone looked at him warily and waited.

“I have decided that we shall do a study of the theatre of this period, and prepare a well-known play for presentation -- possibly Shakespeare, or perhaps Marlowe or Thomas Kyd. I shall make up scripts for all of you, and next time, you will be assigned your parts as well. Dismissed!”

 

*

 

It was a perk of the Head position that one had access to one’s own suite of rooms apart from the general student population—a comfortable sitting room, spacious bedroom, small but quite functional kitchenette, and a rather large, luxurious bathroom that made Hermione feel quite decadent-- with the obvious benefit being complete privacy. Well, nearly complete. The bedroom was the only area totally one’s own. All the rest was shared with the other Head.

As Hermione trudged up the stairs towards the portrait hole, she found herself expelling a rather mournful sigh. It had been a trying day. Besides the embarrassment and annoyance she’d felt at Malfoy’s hands in Fitzherbert’s class, she’d been having far too many late nights this past week and it was starting to tell on her.

“Marmite,” she muttered, and the portrait swung open, admitting her. Wearily, she climbed inside, dropped her satchel, and flopped down on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and blissfully flexing her toes . Simple gravity brought her skirt down around the tops of her thighs as she stretched and elevated her legs, eyes shut.

Up came her right leg to slide its knee sock off, and then her left, flinging the socks away. One sock landed on the arm chair opposite the sofa, and the other sailed through the air towards the door, just as the suite’s other occupant walked in. Reflexively, he reached up and deftly snagged the sock in mid-air as it hurtled towards him.

Hermione’s eyes were still shut and she hadn’t heard Draco walk in. He took the opportunity to eye the bared leg still raised in the air, his gaze traveling down its length to the small, triangular patch of white cotton visible between her thighs. He stood there a moment, enjoying the view, and then moved closer, dangling the sock above her right leg and tickling her with it.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Yours, I believe?” Draco said cordially, dropping the sock onto her left thigh.

The urge to scramble, mortified, into a sitting position whilst frantically tugging her skirt down as far as it would go was strong, but Hermione resisted it. Instead, she slowly drew herself up, smoothing her skirt back into place in what she fervently hoped was a dignified manner.

“Yes, thanks,” she replied lightly, and plucked the offending sock from her lap, rolling it into a ball in her hand.

Draco inclined his head slightly but said nothing, sitting down, loose-limbed, in the adjacent armchair. A moment later, he drew out the other sock from beneath him and held it up for her to see, swinging it slightly. Hermione leaned forward and snatched it from him, smiled sweetly, and then buried herself behind the largest book she could find in her satchel.

He could feel the scowl radiating in hot little waves from behind her book, and wanted to laugh out loud. She _would_ suffer his presence—perhaps not gladly, but he had no intention of leaving, even though after the strenuous Quidditch practice Slytherin had just had, it would be bliss to take a long, hot shower right about now, and then curl up in bed and read for a while in real comfort.

No. He had decided that a lesson was in order. He’d had quite enough of her superior attitude. Right from the off, the little bitch had had the monumental cheek to look down on _him_. Time to remind her of her place.

Making a great show of luxuriantly stretching his long limbs, Draco peeled off his gloves and wrist guards, dropping them on the floor. The dragon hide boots were next. Finally, he stripped off his damp shirt, pungent with sweat, and tossed it onto the pile, leaning back in the armchair bare-chested, arms folded behind his head.

"Ah…" he sighed. "How delightful to be back in the comfort of our little sitting room, where I can kick back and really relax." And then he looked at Hermione through hooded eyes, smiling lazily.

The pig. How could he sit there like that, knowing how positively rank he smelled! Merlin, he actually put his arms up over his head! Had he no shame at all?

Apparently not. Crossing his outstretched legs at the ankle, Draco pulled a book out of his own satchel, carelessly left by the side of the chair before practice, and began to read.

Malfoy’s bare chest was like some sort of peculiar beacon. For some reason, Hermione couldn’t keep her eyes off it. He was rather well toned, wasn’t he. And--

 _Gosh. Those Quidditch breeches are rather_ …snug. _I can see virtually_ —.

Sensing he was being watched, Draco grinned and then raised his eyes, following her gaze to his crotch. Whereupon they locked eyes over the tops of their books. It was immediately clear to her that he knew she’d been staring, and at what.

His eyes crinkled in silent amusement as she was overcome by a feverish blush for the—what was it?—third time that day.

Oh, this was simply too much! Hermione shot up from the sofa, grabbed her rucksack, and headed towards her bedroom, tripping gracelessly over the pile of Quidditch gear still in the middle of the floor.

Muttering a few very choice expletives under her breath, she scooped up the sweaty shirt, boots, gloves and wrist guards, dumping the lot into Draco’s lap. One boot landed rather hard a mere two inches to the left of disaster, and he caught it just as it fell.

Her door slammed and he smiled.

Perfect.

 

*

 

The next Muggle Studies class wasn’t for another few days. In the interim, a small war of attrition began in earnest. Draco invaded their common areas as much as he possibly could. To Hermione, it felt as if he were always there. Wherever and whenever she so much as turned around, there he was, smiling complacently at her.

He also made a habit of “borrowing” certain items of hers without asking or returning them.

One night after a late study session in the library, Hermione discovered to her dismay that her copy of **The Hobbit** had gone missing. And she’d nearly finished it—albeit for the fifth time. She’d left it on the end table next to the sofa, she was certain of that. Determined to find it—she’d been so looking forward to finishing it tonight! And for once, Malfoy wasn’t around!—she nearly tore the sitting room and then her bedroom apart, searching.

 _Malfoy._ It had to be. She gritted her teeth in sudden resolve. She _would_ have her book back.

Slipping out of her shoes, she moved stealthily to his door, stopping to listen.

Dead silence.

Her heart suddenly racing, Hermione pushed open the door that, thank the gods, swung free of the doorframe silently.

Carefully, she tiptoed into his bedroom, a mirror image of hers in layout. A shaft of moonlight shone through an opening in the curtains, but otherwise, the room was pitch dark.

As her eyes adjusted, she could make out a lump in the bed that she knew must be Malfoy. It didn’t move, and she let out the breath that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

The dresser—it could be there. Reaching out cautiously, her hand slid along its polished surface, finding nothing—until it knocked over a bottle of cologne, which hit the dresser with a loud _smack._

 _Merlin, no!_ She sucked in her breath, eyes darting to the sleeping form. It stirred slightly and there was a muffled word or two, and then silence again.

So far, Fate seemed to be smiling on Hermione. But there were still two places she hadn’t checked: his bedside tables. She edged closer and reached the one on the left. Thankfully he appeared to be facing away from that side. Maybe her luck would hold and she’d find her book there.

A quick check revealed no book, either on top of the nightstand or in its drawer.

 _Shite._ That meant if he had it, it was probably on the other table to the right of the bed, and very close to where Malfoy lay curled up, asleep.

Holding her breath, she moved quietly along the perimeter of the large bed, brushing up against the rich hangings and sidling up its length until she reached the head of the bed. Suddenly, a light illuminated the underside of the quilt and a tousled, blond head popped out from beneath it.

“Looking for this?’ Draco asked innocently, raising just the edge of the quilt to reveal _her_ copy of **The Hobbit** , lying open in the light from his glowing wand tip. “Always did like reading under the covers, you know. Something sort of…I don’t know… _naughty_ about it.” He smiled, one eyebrow raised provocatively, and lifted the covers even further. “Care to join me?”

 _OH._

She gasped, snatched the book, and fled.

He was lying on his side in elegant repose. Stark naked.

“Terribly sorry, Granger!” he called after her, his lips twitching. “Forgot that not everybody sleeps in the nude! Did I offend?” He paused, biting back his laughter, and then called out, “Hey, I was just getting to the good bit with Bilbo and that little Gollum bugger. Can’t we share, Granger? Pretty please?”

What sounded like a foot firmly connecting with his bedroom door made him snicker. The shriek that followed had him rolling in helpless laughter until he was quite breathless, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

 

*

 

Professor Fitzherbert surveyed the class with a coolly appraising eye. He stood at the lectern, drumming his fingers against a pile of parchment scrolls.

Gradually, the noise level dropped to near zero as everyone settled in. All eyes found the professor and they waited expectantly.

“Good afternoon, class,” he said and smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth beneath the thin moustache. “I have decided that for your term project, the class shall perform Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” I shall direct. The performance will take place as part of a school-wide gala just before the winter holidays. Each of you will take a script when your name is called. You will find a note with your assigned role and designated scenes attached to the top of the script. These parts are…” he added, taking a moment to pause dramatically, his gaze sweeping the room and lingering on certain faces, “not negotiable. Those of you without an actual speaking role will be asked to be part of the stage crew or work on costumes or scenery.The assignments shall be given as follows. _Please pay attention._ ” His voice dropped to an icy hiss that could have rivaled Snape’s, as he stared at two whisperers. Immediately the culprits’ conversation died in their throats.

“Now when I call your name…”

He began to read the names off a class roster, as each student walked up to the front of the room to receive his or her script and role assignment.

Hermione sat back down with hers, holding it rolled up in her lap. Suddenly she felt oddly nervous, excited and even a bit petrified, as she’d never had a part in a school play of quite this size. She looked around to gauge the reactions of her classmates. “Harry!” she hissed. “Who’ve you got?”

Harry looked a bit unsure of whether he ought to be pleased or upset about his assigned part. “Demetrius. Is that good?”

“It’s very good! It’s a very important role! Oh, Harry! You’ll be wonderful!” Hermione enthused, clapping her hands together.

Ron scowled and stuffed his parchment into a pocket.

“Okay, Ron, I’ll bite.” Harry grinned. “What part have you got, then?”

Ron mumbled something into his sleeve.

“What? Couldn’t understand you, mate. Sorry. Again, please?” Harry poked his friend.

“Sodding PUCK, okay? Satisfied? Now bugger off!” Ron turned a fairly murderous look on Harry. Hermione covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

After class, some people still lingered, milling about and discussing the play.

“Hey, Hermione, you haven’t said who you are!” Lavender called. “I’m to be Helena!”

“Oh, that’s great, you’ve got one of the leads!” Hermione replied, giving her a ‘thumbs up.’ “Me – oh…well…” She slowly unrolled her parchment. In ornate script at the top, it read: ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ by William Shakespeare. Hermia. Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene III; Act III, Scene II; Act IV, Scene I; Act V, Scene I.’

“Hermia. I’m to be Hermia, isn’t that funny!” She gave an embarrassed little giggle, and closed her hand over the paper again. “I must have got it because of the name!”

“Oh, surely not. It’s rather perfect casting, wouldn’t you say, Granger?” A smoothly sardonic voice broke in a couple of rows behind her. _Malfoy._ “Short, a big mouth, vile temper…” He pointed a finger at her. “ ‘Get you gone, you dwarf; You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn.’ ” He shook his head, amused. “However did Shakespeare know?”

Snorts of laughter broke out around him.

Hermione sat stiffly in her seat, her back ramrod straight, tears pricking her lashes. She turned her head just slightly, enough to see Malfoy grinning smugly at her as he leaned back in his seat, arms folded. As she looked, he very slowly sat forward until he was leaning on his elbows and staring directly at her.

“Malfoy, you twat,” Harry started angrily, rising out of his seat, but Hermione laid her hand on his arm.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she said very quietly. “I can handle him.” She turned around and looked Draco straight in the face. He was still smirking.

“You delivered those lines beautifully, Malfoy,” she said, smiling glacially. “Will I have the pleasure of playing Hermia to your Lysander, by any chance?”

He inclined his head slightly, the remains of the smirk quirking his lips.

She stood. “Well, in that case-- I think, for the sake of creating a realistic portrayal of two _lovers_ …”

She walked purposefully towards him, her head high. He sat, apparently frozen in his seat, as was everyone immediately around him. Nobody had the slightest idea what Hermione was about to do, but they sure as hell weren’t about to leave before finding out.

Swiftly, before she lost her nerve, Hermione cupped Draco’s face in her hands, leaned down, and planted a kiss squarely on his mouth. His eyes opened wide under the surprise assault and then began to drift shut as the unexpectedly delicious sensation of her lips moving over his began to beguile him, and he found himself kissing her back.

Just as he’d begun to deepen it, though, Hermione broke the kiss, saying briskly, “Not bad, Malfoy. _Fairly_ convincing. Could do with a bit more passion, though, and… _finesse_ …if you want to make it look _real_.”

And with that, she spun on her heel and marched out of the classroom, her chin up and a triumphant smile on her face.

In her wake, Draco’s look of utter astonishment quickly changed to an equal mix of chagrin and anger.

 _Very clever, Granger. One for you. But the next round is_ mine.

 

 

TBC

 

The venerable codpiece:

  
A doublet with codpiece attached

  
Henry VIII

  
A codpiece that actually looks rather fishy!

  
A gentleman at court

Re-enactors, complete with codpieces!


	2. Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

 

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

 

It was early November and the days were growing noticeably shorter. The shadows on the venerable, old stone walls of Hogwarts School were already long by four and evening was setting in before five. The gathering dark and chill air had house-elves busy lighting early hearth fires all over the school.

A week had passed since the scripts had been distributed and the parts assigned. It would have appeared to an outsider that a truce had been called between Draco and Hermione. Nothing overt had been instigated on either side. In fact, a truce was the last thing on Draco Malfoy’s mind. But he was nothing if not a planner, and meticulous to a fault. Granger had raised the stakes with that kiss. Now it was not merely a question of putting the Mudblood in her place once and for all, but of restoring his besmirched honour and dignity, both endeavors completely justified. The issue wasn’t whether he would find a way to retaliate for that abject humiliation in front of all his friends a week before.

It was how and when.

He would mull that over and work it out in due course. In the meantime, he needed to bring his attention back to the scene the two of them were going over. It was their first important one together and Hermione had expressed the opinion that they had to understand the “motivation” and language of the scene before they could properly convey it to an audience.

“They’re clearly talking about all the ways that love can go wrong, aren’t they,” she mused. “Maybe we ought to make a list for ourselves. I’ll do it. You start.” She nodded to Draco and sat, her quill poised.

“Come on, Granger, this is bollocks and you know it. The words speak for themselves!” he snorted, flopping back on the sofa and rolling his eyes.

“No, really, I don’t think it’s as straightforward as you seem to believe. Okay, I’ll start. Lysander makes the point that real love has never been easy or uncomplicated, doesn’t he, and the first reason he gives has to do with blood. I think that could mean loyalty to family, maybe, where the relatives of the man don’t approve of the woman, or vice versa. And then the lovers are trapped between loyalty to their families and the way they feel about each other. You know, like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Those two would’ve have done better just to listen to their families and stay away from each other! If they had done, they’d have lived past the age of fifteen!” The fire was dying down and Draco got up and prodded the embers with the brass poker. They flared briefly, and he turned and leaned back against the mantel. “Blood is important. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

“So you really think a person should sacrifice his or her own happiness just to be loyal to family ideas? What if the ideas are wrong?”

“Wrong or not, family comes first. Loyalty. And tradition. They’re everything. It’s always up to the next generation to carry on traditions. Like a sacred trust. Anyway, why am I trying to explain all this to somebody like you? You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I suppose you think that my lack of pure blood means my brain functions differently, do you?” Hermione was feeling decidedly warm under the collar. “Is that what you believe?”

“Well…that wasn’t what I meant, but yes, now you ask. I do.” He shrugged. “It’s just common sense.”

“No,” Hermione replied sharply. “It’s a load of racist rubbish. Okay, okay…”she muttered to herself, taking a steadying breath. “Let’s just move on. We’re wasting time on this ridiculous discussion. Can’t teach a pig to fly.”

“What was that you said?” Draco had begun tuning her out but now his ears pricked up. “Are you insinuating…”

“Oh no, not insinuating. Apparently I’m not clever enough to do that. Draw your own conclusions!” She glared furiously at him and then turned her back, throwing herself down on the sofa, script in hand. “Your turn!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. The girl had spirit—and nerve. But he refused to acknowledge the covert insult. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he simply filed it away as he glanced at the lines for a moment.

“Okay,” he said. “I can sum all this up in one sentence: so-called ‘true love’ is bollocks for lots of reasons-- differences in class or age, friends who don’t approve, unrequited love-- and even when none of those situations happen, then war, death or sickness gets in the way. See? Simple. End of discussion. Lots of reasons that this ‘true love’ shite is just that. Lysander is spot-on here. Too many obstacles and too much suffering. People should just marry for money or political advantage or whatever. They don’t need to be in love with each other. You can always take a lover if that’s what you want.”

He thought of the many mistresses his father had had over the years and as far as he knew, his mother was none the wiser or if she were, she certainly didn’t seem to care. For all he knew, she might have done the same. Either way, the system seemed to work just fine at home. It was just the way things were and had always been.

“But you’re forgetting Hermia’s last thought on the subject, Malfoy! She says…” Hermione paused to run a finger down the page until she found the lines she sought. “Here it is. She says, ‘If then true lovers have been ever cross’d, it stands as an edict in destiny: then let us teach our trial patience, because it is a customary cross, as due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers.’ In _other_ words, Malfoy…” --she sighed, trying to remain patient—“everybody goes through it and we have to be willing to stick it out because true love is worth anything we might have to go through. If you look, you’ll see that Hermia does persuade Lysander, because he ends up _agreeing_ with her! _That’s_ what Shakespeare wants us to come away with, not that love is a stupid waste of time!” ‘Like you,’ she thought angrily.

“Well, if that’s true, then Shakespeare was a complete pillock, and so are you for believing such a lot of tosh!”

“Better that, Malfoy, than choosing to follow along and do what I’m told like a good little sheep! At least I _try_ to use my brain, inferior though it is according to your sort! You’re just checking yours at the door if you buy into that rubbish!” Hermione had become increasingly agitated as she spoke, and was now standing directly in front of Draco’s chair, face pink with emotion, fists clenched on her hips.

Slowly he got to his feet and looked down at her, only a few inches separating them. She refused to be intimidated, glaring daggers up at him. He held her gaze, his own face stonily impassive. They stayed this way for several seconds, neither one giving an inch, until finally, Draco shrugged gracefully and turned away, as if to indicate his complete lack of serious interest one way or the other. He knew this would frustrate her more than anything else he might say or do.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said flatly. “I’ve got better things to do.”

She’d been dismissed! Unbelievably rude. _And_ thick as a post! That’s what he was. She couldn’t understand how he could be quite so dense, and such a hardened cynic on top of it. She shook her head. Could he really believe such things? Sad.

Later that evening, Hermione sat curled up in the armchair. She was so engrossed in her book that she failed to notice the door to the suite opening. Suddenly, she heard it shut and looked up to see Draco walking in, his arm around a black-haired girl, a sixth-year Ravenclaw who’d been trying to get his attention for weeks. He winked at Hermione as they passed, his bedroom door closing on their sudden laughter. Hermione’s stomach clenched and she looked away, willing herself to go deaf rather than have to hear anything coming from his room.

The next night, it was more of the same, only this time it was a blonde from Hufflepuff. The night after that, he showed up with a brunette from his own house. By week’s end, he’d added five fresh notches to his belt and Hermione had their equivalent in painful knots of tension in her neck and stomach.

Finally, late on Friday night, she confronted him after his latest conquest had been shown the door. Because of course, they never stayed the night. That would have imposed on Draco’s singular need for privacy and besides, it would send the wrong signal, and he couldn’t have that.

The door closed and Draco lay down on the sofa, his feet dangling off the end, sighing contentedly. He closed his eyes and smiled. Suddenly, he felt a tapping on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see Hermione standing over him, scowling.

“If you _must_ bonk everything in a skirt for miles around, at least have the courtesy to be more discreet about it!”

Draco grinned inwardly. Sweet success.

He raised himself up on one elbow and regarded her coolly.

“Well, now, Granger, what exactly is it that’s got your lily-white knickers in such a twist? The fact that I have a very busy…” He paused, smiling wolfishly. “…and pleasurable sex life, or the fact that I have a sex life at _all_ , unlike _you?_ "

She hadn’t expected such a bald question, and she was stung into silence. Backing away one step and then another, she bumped into the armchair and lost her balance, sitting down abruptly. Draco’s grey eyes were fixed on her. Hermione’s mouth had suddenly gone dry and she felt a blush heat her face.

“I…I…” she began.

Draco swung his legs off the sofa and sat up, leaning forward a bit, pinning her with his gaze. “I do realise that your pitiful private life is none of my concern. But I was taught that charity begins at home. Noblesse oblige and all that. So I wondered…” Rising, he moved to crouch next to the armchair. His voice had gone dangerously soft. “Might there be something I could do to remedy such a sad situation?”

This close, she could see gold flecks in the grey of his eyes, and the sweep of dark lashes that were so striking against his pale skin and hair. He shifted closer still, until his face was no more than a few inches from hers, and still his unwavering gaze held her captive. The intense scrutiny was becoming unbearable.

Hardly daring to breathe, Hermione closed her eyes to escape his stare. And then she felt the light brush of his lips against hers. His mouth was so very soft and warm.

His hands had found their way to her hair, and now they tangled themselves in it, drawing her head even closer to his.

When the tip of his tongue, warm and wet, began to probe her lower lip, she automatically opened her mouth a little way; it was enough, and he slipped his tongue all the way in, finding hers and teasing it with sinuous strokes.

Audaciously, he pressed for more from her, and then still more.

They kissed until they couldn’t breathe, and then they kissed again. Finally Draco pulled away and stood up, his mouth swollen and his cheeks flushed, but with a demeanor that was surprisingly cool and clinical.

“Well, well. I do believe there’s hope for you after all, Granger.” He ran his tongue over his lips thoughtfully. “Though your technique is rather rustic and untutored. Needs a bit more…” He paused as if searching for precisely the right word and then his mouth turned up at one corner in the beginnings of a sneer. “… _finesse_.”

Slowly and deliberately, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth and then smiled rather basely. In the next moment, he had disappeared into his own bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Stunned, Hermione sat frozen to the chair, her mouth slightly open. What in Merlin’s name had just happened? How had he managed to make her feel so incredibly alive and desirable, and virtually in the next moment, so completely foolish, pathetically needy, and dirty? ( _Charity??!!_ ) And how had she been idiot enough to allow it to happen in the first place?

Well, she would not allow the little wanker to get under her skin again. No way. If anything, she would make sure she’d got under _his_ , and in a manner he wouldn’t soon forget. Chagrin turned to resolve, and she sat for the better part of an hour, deep in thought.

 

*

 

Rehearsals were scheduled on a rotating basis so that everyone in the cast would have adequate time to prepare on an actual stage. One had been Conjured to mimic the old Globe Theatre along the long, inside wall of the Great Hall, nearly all the tables having been conveniently Vanished. As the director, Professor Fitzherbert presided over every rehearsal, and he did it with his usual aplomb. Nothing much seemed to faze him, not even when Neville-- cast as Theseus, the Duke of Athens engaged to marry Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons-- fell off the stage when he backed into a painted flat that gave way. Amidst barely muffled snickers, even from his leading lady, Millicent Bulstrode, Neville had picked himself up, red-faced and abjectly apologetic. Professor Fitzherbert had waved his hand blithely at Neville, shaking his head to indicate how trivial it really was, and then cast a withering eye on all those who were still choking with laughter.

“ _Mister_ Malfoy,” he said sternly. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain why the mishaps of others are such a source of unbridled amusement to you and your little friends.” Draco opened his mouth but the professor raised a hand to stop him. “No, no, my good fellow. A written explanation is so much more detailed and well thought out, I have always found. Two feet of parchment by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, in my office, if you please. _And_ Mr. Goyle, Mr. Crabbe, and Mr. Nott.”

Draco closed his mouth in a tight line and turned away, beckoning to his coterie of Slytherins to follow. On the other side of the Great Hall, Hermione sat surrounded by her friends.

“Did you see that?” Ron scoffed. “Fitzherbert just gave Malfoy and his goons what-for! Always knew I liked that bloke!”

“Really?” Hermione said, an eyebrow raised skeptically. “Wasn’t it you who said, just last week, that he was a flaming p—"

“Okay, okay.” Ron waved his hand, dismissing that. “Maybe I did. That was then.” He brightened again. “Did you see the look on Malfoy’s face! I’d pay to see that again. Stupid gits, the lot of them!”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know,” Harry agreed. “Neville seems to be okay, though. Hermione, we’re on soon, aren’t we?” He scanned his script.

Hermione looked too, turning the pages to check their place. “Yes, you’re right, and it’s the really big scene with the four of us in the forest.”

Truthfully, she had to admit that several days earlier, she’d been dreading rehearsing this particular scene, because she knew Malfoy would be reveling in it. His character had just been mistakenly dosed with the juice of a magical flower, turning his love for her character into abject hatred, and believing himself in love with another. If he had his way, it would be insult on top of insult, but all within the confines of the dialogue and therefore, perfectly acceptable. She’d heard him practicing his lines through his closed bedroom door as she sat on the sofa studying, and just the tone of his voice was indication enough. He’d been _enjoying_ this a bit too much.

 _Well_ …Hermione smiled serenely. _Not for long._

“Right!” Professor Fitzherbert called crisply. “Let’s have Puck and Oberon onstage, please!” He beckoned vigorously and strode back to the farther recesses of the stage to adjust some scenery.

Blaise poured himself out of the chair he was lounging in and ambled up to the stage, exuding confidence. He _was_ Oberon, king of the fairies, and he had no doubt he’d be the hottest, most charismatic fairy king ever.

Puck, on the other hand, didn’t so much amble as slink, wishing he could render himself invisible. Well, he could, he supposed, with enough effort, though it wasn’t a spell he’d ever managed with much success--but what would be the point? He didn’t reckon Fitzherbert would care much for the idea of him performing the role disembodied.

“Mr. Weasley, front and centre, please! Mr. Zabini—you stand a bit to the right. Yes, that’s good. Begin with ‘What hast thou done?’”

Blaise held out his arms and began: “What hast thou done? Thou has mistaken quite and laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight: Of thy misprision must perforce…”

“No, no, Mr. Zabini! Now look—you’re taking Puck to task for making a terrible mistake and causing all sorts of chaos for these four people. You’re giving those lines as if you’re reading a recipe from **Enchantment in Baking**! Now let’s try for the _proper_ tone.”

An excruciating fifteen minutes later, they had progressed to Ron’s best-known lines. If body language could be translated into actual sounds, the Great Hall would have been echoing with agonized moans. As it was, he stood there, hunched over and folded into himself, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of exposing himself even more than he was already being forced to do.

Hermione felt the overpowering urge to cover her eyes and ears. Watching Ron up there was that painful. On the other hand, from his vantage point on stage pretending, as Demetrius, to be asleep, Harry felt a terrible compulsion to watch everything. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. This train wreck had “Ronald Weasley” written all over it.

“Right, cue him, please, Mr. Zabini,” Professor Fitzherbert said briskly.

Blaise raised the script, scanning it offhandedly for the proper place.

“Sometime today, Mr. Zabini,” the professor said, the slightest edge in his voice now.

“Flower of this purple dye, hit with Cupid’s archery, sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, let her shine as gloriously as the Venus of the sky. When thou wakest, if she be by, beg of her for remedy.” The flatness and speed of his delivery rendered the words impotent, but Blaise was too busy scanning the Great Hall to see which girls might be watching him to care one way or the other. Professor Fitzherbert grimaced, but waved his hand for the scene to continue anyway. He’d come to realise that Blaise Zabini was never going to be an actor and there was no point in giving himself aggravation over something he really couldn’t change.

“Mr. Weasley, your lines?”

Silence.

“Mr. _Weasley_.”

Ron seemed to wake from a deep sleep, shaking himself. In the farther reaches of the hall, Draco perked up and elbowed his friends.

“Weasley’s on again,” he sniggered. “This should be good!”

Motioning to Crabbe, Nott and Goyle to follow, Draco left the obscurity of the back corner and walked straight up the middle of the hall to a spot fairly close to the stage. There he stopped, folding his arms across his chest, an anticipatory smirk on his face. The others adopted the same pose.

Glancing over at them, Hermione rolled her eyes. Did none of them know how to think for himself? Look at them, the prats. All they knew how to do really well, it seemed, was suck up to Malfoy. Malfoy and his three brainless clones, that’s what they were. Disgusted, she turned her attention back to the stage in time to see Ron turn scarlet as Professor Fitzherbert propelled him forward several steps, holding him by the shoulders.

“Captain of our fairy band,” Ron announced to a bored Blaise, who was busy studying his fingernails at the moment, “Helena is here. Here…uh…at hand. And…and the youth mistook by me, pleading for a lover’s fee.” Ron glanced up at the professor for a sign of approval. Professor Fitzherbert smiled, but his smile looked a bit ghastly as he nodded for Ron to continue.

His hands clammy with nerves, Ron darted a furtive look around the hall to make sure nobody was laughing. Unfortunately, several people were, and had been for some time. Soundlessly and into their hands, to be sure. But from the flushed colour of their faces, it was clear they were barely holding it in. Draco, in particular, looked as if a fit of apoplexy had taken him. His eyes were alternately wide and then squeezed shut, watery with mirthful tears, and he had turned an attractive shade of rose pink as he held onto his stomach and turned away, bent over double.

“Uh…um…” Ron stuttered.

“’Shall we their fond pageant’…” Fitzherbert prompted.

“Right, yeah. ‘Shall we their fond pageant see.’”

“That’s a question, Mr. Weasley.”

“Question…yeah, okay…‘Shall we their fond pageant _SEE?_ ’” Ron’s voice cracked as it rose on that last word, and he swallowed hard.

On the floor, Draco and his cronies, as well as others now, were on the verge of hysterics. Professor Fitzherbert shot them all a dirty look and turned back to the painfully arduous task at hand.

“‘Lord, what fools these mortals be.’ Mr. Weasley, this is the most famous line in the entire _play_. Just say. The bloody. Line!” Fitzherbert hissed into Ron’s face.

And then Ron’s expression changed, his face clearing as if a light had gone off inside his head and his stage fright had simply evaporated. He straightened up and looked directly at Blaise and his voice wasn’t shaking at all.

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” He grinned hugely.

The hall erupted in applause, some of it not kindly meant, and Ron knew it—but a lot of it was genuine. Most of the others had been suffering along with every stuttered syllable and truly felt relieved and happy he’d finally got it right.

“Right, everybody,” the professor called, hugely relieved himself. “ _Break!_ ”

A very nice tea had been laid on the one table that hadn’t been Vanished, and everybody hurried over to dig in.

“Ron!” Harry called, motioning him over. “Man, you nearly gave me heart failure, you know that?” He poured a cup of tea, adding in a lot of milk and sugar, and heaped a couple of flaky scones on a plate, topping them with strawberry jam and generous dollops of clotted cream.

Meanwhile, Ron had piled his plate with at least ten small, delicately cut finger sandwiches and a large wedge of apple tart. Unable to wait, he took a huge bite of the tart, and nodded.

“I wasn’t half bad, what d’you reckon?” he grinned, taking a swig of his tea and popping a whole sandwich into his mouth. “Mmm…s’good!”

“Ron, you were _awful!_ ” Hermione giggled behind him. “But you got _lots_ better at the end and that’s what counts!” She helped herself to some sandwiches and a scone, putting modest spoonfuls of jam and cream on both cut halves. She liked her tea creamy and sweet, as Harry did, and now, that first, bracing sip was like ambrosia. She was so tired. The last several nights had been late ones again, between regular studies and preparing for today’s rehearsal, which had kept her especially busy. She hoped she would remember her lines better than Ron had done.

 

*

 

Fifteen minutes later, the four leads—Hermione, Draco, Harry and Lavender—were being shown their marks and properly positioned to begin the scene.

“Now, then, Miss Brown. You have just been deserted by the man you adore, Demetrius here--” Professor Fitzherbert gestured towards Harry—“and you find yourself in the clearing where Lysander and Hermia lie sleeping. Puck has just mistakenly given a powerful love potion from the nectar of a magical flower to you, Lysander,” – he nodded at Draco—“believing you to be Demetrius, so that when you wake up, you see her and instantly fall madly in love--” (titters from the students watching) “with her, forgetting all about your true love, Hermia. You, Helena, believe him to be playing a cruel joke on you. You leave and he follows, abandoning you, Hermia,” he said, gesturing to Hermione, “so that you wake up from a terrible nightmare to find yourself alone. Oberon has discovered Puck’s mistake and has had him dose you, Demetrius, with the same magical nectar, so that now you too are in love with Helena, but she believes both of you are now cruelly taunting her. ” He paused, and nodded to all of them. “Ready? We’ll take it from ‘Why should you think that I woo in scorn?’”

Draco nodded, smiling complacently. He was ready.

“Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, in their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?”

Instantly, a volley of applause erupted from a back corner of the Great Hall. Draco glanced in that direction, and his smile grew even more smug if possible. Bending low at the waist, he doffed an imaginary hat with a flourish.

“All right, that’s quite enough of that,” Professor Fitzherbert interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Call off your fan club, Mr. Malfoy, if you please!”

Draco grinned, peering out into the recesses of the hall and drawing his index finger across his throat.

Lavender stepped forward. “Um…‘You do advance your cunning more and more. When…when…when truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!” That last bit came out in a triumphant rush, and she beamed with relief at Professor Fitzherbert.

Haltingly, they made their way through the page of script, Professor Fitzherbert alternately smiling and wiping his brow when he thought nobody noticed.

Draco had just delivered the cue line for Harry’s next block of dialogue, and Harry, pretending to awaken, stepped forward, his chest puffed out in a stalwart stance.

“O Helena,” he began, capturing Lavender’s hand in a tight grip that made her wince. “Goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?”

“Let go of me, Harry!” Lavender hissed. “You’re squeezing too hard!” She wiggled her fingers, trying to extricate them from his grasp and finally succeeding, nearly falling backwards in the attempt. The students watching from below tittered.

“Crystal is muddy, Oh, how ripe in show thy lips…” he soldiered on gamely. “…those kissing cherries…”

At this, somebody made loud, smacking kissy noises and several people lost it completely. Professor Fitzherbert was forced to eject them from the Great Hall, striding back up to the stage looking thoroughly harassed.

Harry stood there utterly mortified, but Hermione moved closer and gave his hand a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay, Harry,” she whispered. “They’re just incredibly immature. Pay no attention. You’re doing great.”

“Right,” he sighed. “Just great…”

The scene progressed—slowly and rather painfully, after Professor Fitzherbert was forced to set down rather stringent rules of behaviour for the remaining students watching, after first delivering a lecture on basic manners. While he spoke, Hermione cast several sidelong glances at Draco from her spot in the wings. It wouldn’t be long now. And if she had worked the timing out right, it would begin just about _now_ …

She heard her cue, and entered, stage left.

“Dark night,” she began, “that from the eye his function takes…Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound but why unkindly didst thou leave me so?”

Draco turned a contemptuous smile on her. “Why should he stay, love press to whom doth go?”

He stopped. _Wait_. Something sounded strange. He stood there, momentarily confused.

He wasn’t the only one. You could have heard a pin drop. Every eye was on Malfoy. Professor Fitzherbert’s own eyes widened for a moment and then narrowed, his brows furrowed.

“Just what are you playing at, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Nothing, Professor, I swear. I…expect I just…”

“Cocked it up,” the professor finished drily. “Yes. Well. Try it again, please. Miss Granger, will you kindly give him his cue?”

Hermione nodded, smiling faintly. “Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound but why unkindly didst thou leave me so?”

Draco nodded and opened his mouth. “He should stay why, press love go doth to whom?”

Oddly, it almost sounded as if it made sense. Almost.

“What the fuck…?” he muttered, agitated.

Hermione’s mouth twitched and she turned away. Harry and Lavender were openly staring, mouths agape. Standing in the shadows of the stage, Professor Fitzherbert was slowly turning puce. He strode forward, looking ready to kill.

“Mr. Malfoy. I do not take kindly to this sort of infantile humour. You were given one of the leading roles in this production because I was under the impression that you could handle it and do it credit. If you cannot, then I will be forced to reconsider my initial decision.” He sighed and stepped back. “Next line, please. That will be you, Miss Granger.”

Those students watching whispered amongst themselves. Speculation ran wild about the possible causes of such bizarre behaviour. The common consensus was that Draco had probably spiked his tea or had been smoking something in a broom closet.

Hermione glanced down at her script and then up at Draco, who was now regarding her quizzically. She merely smiled. “What love could press Lysander from my side?”

He cleared his throat. It was more than a bit disconcerting not to be able to trust that what came out of one’s mouth would match what was in one’s head.

“Uh…Bide him not, let that Lysander’s love would,” he babbled, and then turned his head sharply and stared at Hermione.

She shrugged.

“Right. Mr. Malfoy—can you at least read the line _from the script?_ At this stage of your academic career, I believe I can expect that much from you at least.” Suddenly, Professor Fitzherbert looked at him sharply. “Have you been _drinking?_ ”

“No, no, Professor! I swear I haven’t! Not one drop!” And then, anticipating the next question, Draco rushed to continue. “Or anything else either, honestly! I…I don’t know what’s the matter with me! Give me another chance! Please!”

The clutch of students, many of his friends amongst them, were goggle-eyed by this time, and utterly silent. Professor Fitzherbert seemed suddenly rather exhausted. His whole body appeared to sag under an invisible weight, and he simply nodded wearily.

“One last chance, Mr. Malfoy. Just _one_. And if you cannot discharge your responsibilities in this role, it will go to somebody who can. Dismissed, everybody. Notification regarding the next rehearsal will be posted outside the classroom as soon as it has been determined. Good day.”

And with that, he disappeared with a _pop_.

 

*

 

“ _GRANGER!!!_ ”

 

Hermione looked up from the research essay she’d been writing for Advanced Ancient Runes as the door to the suite slammed shut.

Draco stood there, absolutely livid, his eyes practically popping out of his head, his face flushed crimson. He looked ready to spit nails.

Despite her resolve to stay calm no matter what, Hermione began to feel a frisson of fear. She stood and began backing slowly towards her bedroom door.

“Wh-what’s the matter?” she managed to say as he advanced on her. Nervously, she stepped up her pace but he was quicker and had her pinned in a matter of seconds, his face an inch from hers, his hands crushing her wrists to the wall on either side of her face.

“ _JUST WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO TO ME???_ ” Draco roared.

“What…what are you talking about?” she quavered, turning her face to the side.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about! Don’t play innocent with me, little girl! You are way out of your league this time!” he said harshly. “What was it you cast? _Tell me!_ ” He tightened his grip on her wrists, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises and cut off her circulation. She could feel the blood draining from her fingers.

“I…I…” she began.

“ _Yes?_ ” he growled. “ _What. Was. It._ ”

“A…a…variation of the Confundus… _L-lingua Inconditas._ I thought of it myself…” she whispered.

“Oh, did you now? How very clever.” His voice was now low and silken. “Prizes for cleverness to Hermione Granger, Head Girl and pride of Gryffindor House.” He shifted his hold on her slightly, moving his hands down her arms to her shoulders, which he pressed relentlessly against the wall. She knew that marks from his fingers would be there by the next morning.

“And I suppose you did it wandlessly? When?”

She said nothing, only shut her eyes against his wrath.

“ I said _WHEN_? Tell me, bitch!” He shook her and her head snapped forward and then back, hitting the wall. Catching a handful of her hair, he wrapped it around his hand, pulling hard.

“When we stopped for tea,” she blurted out. “You had your back to me. I’m sorry! It was a rotten trick.”

“You’re sorry,” he parroted. “ _Sorry_. I _see_. Care to explain _why_ you did it?”

Suddenly Hermione _did_ want to explain. Wanted to very badly, in fact. She pulled herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, attempting to wrench herself out of his grasp, and looked him right in the eye. She would _not_ be intimidated anymore. She wouldn’t give him that sort of power!

“Yes. I would be _delighted_ ,” she replied icily, her eyes suddenly hard as flint. “You had it coming after what you did to me, you contemptible little piece of troll shit! Deliberately flaunting all your many conquests in my face night after night, and then topping it all off by kissing me because you felt _SORRY FOR ME_ , like I’m some sort of pathetic charity case! And then wiping the contamination off your mouth! Don’t think,” she breathed, her voice ragged, ”don’t think for one minute that I don’t know what your game is, Malfoy! You’re out to humiliate and belittle me, cut me down to size. And why? Besides the fact of my very existence in this school, of course. Because I had the temerity to _kiss_ you and then embarrass you a bit in front of your little toadies, _after_ you’d insulted me yet again in front of the entire class!” She stopped to catch her breath and then whispered, “Got a newsflash for you, Malfoy. No matter what you may tell yourself, you _liked_ it.”

And then she smiled.

It was the smile that did it. Draco could feel the anger pulsing right between his eyes. Her face swam before him, an indistinct blur of large brown eyes and masses of chestnut hair framing a small, pale face. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to slap that triumphant smile right off her face. He wanted to…he wanted…

Curling his fingers in her hair, yanking it hard so that she winced, he slammed his mouth down on hers. This had been coming for a long time. He had been wanting her since she had first kissed him, only…he hadn’t _wanted_ to want her, and certainly not so _badly_. Had tried very hard not to, by distracting himself with a slew of other girls. He could have laughed at the irony of it—her assumption, engineered by him, that all those girls had been paraded in front of her for her embarrassment, when really, it was his attempt at his own salvation. And yes, true, he’d couched that kiss in terms meant to hurt and humiliate her—the anger and pride-driven part of him had certainly desired that—but the truth was, he’d also _needed_ to touch her again. Needed it like breathing.

 

And so, finally, he did.

 

She squirmed under him as he pushed her against the wall, chest to chest, and he could feel her breasts pressing against him. _Gods_ , he wanted to touch them. Instead, he concentrated on the soft, sweet mouth he was devouring even as she tried to shove him away. He was far stronger than she, and eventually, her efforts grew more feeble and her hands dropped to her sides.

“Hermione,” he whispered, nipping at her lower lip, tickling it with the tip of his tongue, drawing it into his mouth and suckling it. His breathing had become shallow and he could feel that hers had too. Her eyebrows were drawn together as if she were in pain, her eyes shut, even as her mouth became more pliant and willing. Gradually it opened to him as tears slid silently down her cheeks, and she kissed him with everything she had, her tongue moving against his in a wayward dance.

Now his hands did slip down her sides to her waist and then slowly up the front of her chest until they reached her breasts, his fingertips moving in small, light circles over their expanse, drawing ever closer to their centers. He could feel her draw a sudden breath and then go very still as his hands covered them. They were nicely rounded, he discovered, and just the right size to fill his hands. Their tips were erect, and she moaned softly when he moved the pads of his thumbs over them experimentally. Burying his face in the side of her neck, he sucked on the soft skin below her ear as his fingers continued their meandering caresses.

Ripples of deliciously shivery heat were radiating from his touch straight to her core. This was not what she had bargained for. And yet she wasn’t stopping it, even though she knew—she _knew_ —she could, if she truly wanted to. It wasn’t what she had bargained for, but then, nothing about Malfoy was, she supposed. This was a…a _truce_. Nothing had really changed, not fundamentally. Just a truce.

She slid her fingers into his soft hair and brought his mouth back to hers.

He tasted of chocolate and peppermint.

 

 

TBC


	3. Though This Be Madness...

 

Though This Be Madness…

 

It was finally out in the open—and yet, it wasn’t. The violence of the passion that had ignited between the two of them had shocked them both, and in its immediate aftermath, Draco and Hermione found themselves wary and skittish around each other. They circled one another in an odd dance of avoidance and denial that was especially tricky to bring off in their own quarters.

Suddenly, each one became something of an expert on the other’s habits, the better to stay away. Hermione made herself a chart of Draco’s class schedule, including notes on when he usually woke up on weekdays versus weekends (between seven and eight Mondays through Fridays, and generally between ten and noon on weekends), which days he had Quidditch practice and when, when he preferred having his bath (mornings, before class and on weekends, whenever he managed to rouse himself), and how long his baths generally took (on average, half an hour), when he typically liked an evening snack or cup of tea whilst studying, and what time he usually retired to his bedroom for the night. Lately, it seemed that this was earlier and earlier—not surprisingly, as she was tending to hide out in her room a lot as well.

For his part, Draco kept notes on Hermione in a small journal. He now knew that she always rose punctually at 7:30 on weekdays and spent twenty minutes to half an hour in the bathroom. He knew that she could be found in the kitchenette most evenings at about eleven, making herself a cup of bedtime tea or cocoa, and that she would be lost in her studies for the better part of the evening. At least three evenings a week, he could count on having their sitting room all to himself, because she would invariably be at the library for several hours, not returning until close to midnight. He also knew that whilst reading or studying, she had the unconscious habit of pulling on strands of hair and then winding them around her fingers, that she always garnished her cocoa with a dollop of cream and a sprinkling of cinnamon, and that she squeezed her toothpaste from the middle of the tube, something he found annoyingly illogical. Altogether, this was far more information than he’d ever expected to have or want about this particular girl.

Despite how proficient both had become at steering well clear of each other, there were times when contact was simply unavoidable, such as when they had to rehearse for the play.

On this chill Saturday afternoon, as a scattering of light snowflakes swirled crazily outside their windows, Hermione knocked on Draco’s bedroom door. In her hand was her copy of the script, her lines Spelled to show up bright purple.

“Malfoy!”

No answer.

“Malfoy, I know you’re in there!”

Silence.

“Come on, we’ve got to practise! I need you to run lines with me! We’re both really behind!”

And then—

 

“ _Malfoy!!_ ”

 

This was maddening! She would not let him get away with ruining her chance to give a good performance by skiving off rehearsals!

She had just raised her fist, ready to bang on the door, when it opened. Draco stood in the doorway in a black t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting, flannel pyjama bottoms that rode low on his slim hips. His feet were bare and his hair a bit tousled, with a definite cowlick that she was sure he’d be mortified about if he knew. She grinned.

“Sorry,” he muttered gruffly, running a hand through his hair and inadvertently causing the cowlick to stick up higher. “Didn’t hear you. I was sleeping.”

‘In the middle of the day?’ Hermione thought, incredulous. ‘He never does that!’ She turned her head to avoid staring as, unconsciously, he rubbed his belly, which was attractively taut, the halo of fine, pale hair around his navel becoming a narrow trail that disappeared south into the flannel pyjama bottoms.

“Oh! I’m… uh… I didn’t mean to… we can do it later, it’s okay…” There she went, blushing again! She never used to blush like this—it was only around _him_ that she seemed to combust like a bloody bonfire.

“No, no, we might as well get it over with now. Besides, I’m going out later. Hang on.” The door shut momentarily and then he reappeared, script in hand.

Studiously ignoring the fact that he wasn’t really dressed, or at least not in street clothes, she sat down in the armchair near the sofa, her feet resting on the small coffee table.

Draco leaned back into the sofa cushions and swung his feet onto his side of the table as well.

“Where d’you want to begin?” he asked pleasantly enough, turning pages and carefully avoiding catching her eye.

“Oh… um… I think maybe we should work on the bit where Lysander tells Hermia he hates her. We haven’t practiced that part too much.”

Draco nodded but said nothing, turning pages of the script until he found the right spot. Hermione cleared her throat, slightly on edge now that they were actually about to begin.

“ ‘Lysander… whereto tends all this?’ ” she read.

“ ‘Away, you Ethiope!’ ” Draco responded forcefully, but then stopped. “What does he mean, calling her that?”

“Well, I think it’s just a reference to her dark hair compared to Helena, who’s supposed to be fair.” Hermione chewed the end of her quill and then made a note in the margin.

“Oh.” Draco seemed to be considering something. “At first I thought… well, I wondered, you know… if she were actually African and this was a reflection of his _real_ feelings.”

“Doubtful, Dr. Freud,” Hermione laughed.

“Who?”

“Oh, sorry! Sigmund Freud, very famous Muggle healer of mental illnesses in the last century.”

“Hmm. Okay. So it’s not really about blood, then.”

“No. Not at all. Athough..." Hermione reconsidered. "...really, if you think about it, I suppose he _is_ implying that there's something inferior about being dark, isn't he."

"But that's stupid. I --" Draco stopped mid-sentence, realising what he'd been about to say. "Um... right. Let’s go on. It’s still me speaking. ‘Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! Vile thing, let loose, or I will shake thee from me like a serpent!’ ”

The small irony of the simile wasn’t lost on either of them, though it passed by unremarked, as had the larger, unavoidable irony of Draco's reaction to the initial insult. Both of them seemed anxious to move on to safer ground for the time being.

“Maybe you need to be just a bit more… um… vehement?” Hermione suggested carefully, bringing the focus back to that last bit of dialogue. This was the very scene she’d dreaded doing with him. And yet, now his delivery seemed curiously subdued, almost flat, as if he weren’t actually relishing the upcoming insult fest quite the way he’d seemed to do before.

Draco looked up, startled, but then nodded, composing his expression into one of appropriate disdain.

“ ‘Hang off, thou cat, thou _burr! Vile_ thing, let loose--’ No, no, hang on.” He shook his head. “We really need to be _physical_ with this dialogue. Come on!” He stood and walked to the middle of the floor.

“All right,” Hermione agreed, moving into the open floor space in front of the hearth where he stood, and taking hold of his sleeve. “Again.”

“ ‘Hang _off_ , thou cat, thou burr!’ ” he hissed, tugging at his arm to free it from her grasp. “’Vile thing, let _loose!_ ’ ” On that last word, he wrenched his arm away and she stumbled and lost her balance, sitting down hard on the floor. He put out a hand to stay her movement, warning, “ ‘Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent!’ ”

Hermione got to her feet slowly, brushing herself off; she approached him with caution, an expression of hurt and confusion in her eyes. “ ‘Why are you grown so rude?’ ” Timidly, she reached a hand out to him in entreaty. “ ‘What change is this, sweet love?’ ”

‘Shit, she’s good!’ he thought and then turned, a perfect sneer in place. “ ‘ _Thy_ love! Out, tawny tartar, _out!_ ” He pushed her hand away. “ ‘Out, loathed medicine! Hated potion, _hence!_ ’ ” he spat, his voice suddenly hard and unrelenting.

Despite herself, Hermione jumped slightly, cringing, and took a step back. It seemed almost _real_. “ ‘Do you… do you not jest?’ ” she quavered.

“ ‘What!’ ” Draco scoffed, looking away, but gesturing towards her. “ ‘Should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?’ ” He moved swiftly to Hermione, stopping mere inches from her. “ ‘Although I _hate_ her…’ ” He paused. “ ‘I’ll not harm her so.’ ”

He looked down at her and in that moment, Lysander shone out of Draco’s eyes, or perhaps the reverse, because suddenly it was impossible to tell where the character left off and the actor began.

Hermione gazed at him, her eyes huge, and he wasn’t certain if she were acting or reacting as herself. A full minute passed like an age, and she continued to stare at him. Finally she closed her eyes, a wave of pained sorrow passing over her face, and then opened them to look at him reproachfully.

“ ‘What, can you do me greater harm than hate?’ ” She sank down onto her knees and looked up at him beseechingly, her eyes full of shock and sorrow. “ ‘ _Hate_ me! Wherefore? O me! What news, my love! Am I not Hermia? Are you not Lysander?’ ” Halting a moment and looking away, Hermione smoothed her skirt down, bracing her palms against her thighs. She appeared to be trying to compose herself before speaking again.

‘Nice touch,’ Draco thought and then wondered if it were something contrived after all.

Apparently calm once more, Hermione slowly got to her feet and turned to Draco. “ ‘I am as fair now as I was erewhile,’ ” she said resolutely. “ ‘Since night you loved me; yet since night you left me: why… then you left me—O, the gods forbid!—in _earnest_ , shall I say?’ ” She reached out a tentative hand and touched his cheek.

Her touch tingled in the seconds before he batted her hand away, turning from her and growling, “ ‘Ay, by my life; and _never_ did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; be certain, nothing truer; ‘tis no jest that _I do hate thee_ …’ ” Draco paused, the words dying in his throat.

 

‘ _I do hate thee… be certain, nothing truer… be out of hope, of question, of doubt_ …’

 

Suddenly, it seemed such a harsh and cruel sentiment. In that moment, the true power and poignancy of the scene as Shakespeare intended it hit Draco hard.

“ ‘…and love Helena,’ ” a soft voice prompted.

He shook himself out of his reverie. Hermione was looking at him, concerned, but there was something else in her eyes as well.

“Draco, your line… ‘and love Helena.’ ” She touched his arm lightly, and then quickly withdrew her hand as if she had trespassed.

“ ‘…and love Helena,’ ” he finished, and abruptly flung his script onto the sofa. “I’m done. No more now.”

Confused, Hermione watched as the door to his room closed behind him. Then she sank down into the armchair with a pensive expression, her knees drawn up to her chin.

 

*

 

Three days later, the four o’clock Quidditch practice for Slytherin was cancelled due to the snow that had begun to fall again following the weekend dusting. Draco came into the suite, dropping the bag containing his gear in a corner. The delightful scent of chocolate was in the air. He followed his nose to the kitchenette, where he found Hermione stirring a frothy mug of cocoa. She was about to ladle a spoonful of cream in. The bowl sat on the counter, waiting.

A tiny smile fought to lift the corners of his mouth. “No cinnamon today?” he asked, reaching for the shaker on a shelf above the tiny cooker, before he’d even stopped to think.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” she smiled, and then… Wait. _Full stop_. She’d never told him how she liked her cocoa, but somehow he knew. And he’d actually been… friendly. Ish. And she had, too, in response.

Both suddenly felt as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. It was the most oddly surreal sensation, and they felt it in equal measure.

She took the cinnamon shaker from him, and he withdrew his hand before hers could touch it, and then awkwardly shoved it into his pocket, backing out of the tiny room. There was a sudden urge to render himself invisible, but he squelched it. This was absurd.

This state of confusion and this urge to be civil, even _nice_ , to Granger were just _not on_. What the fuck was wrong with him, anyway? The swotty little Mudblood was still just that. She hadn’t changed and neither had he. They were who they were...

 _Am I not Hermia? Are you not Lysander?_

…weren’t they?

 

*

 

Much later that evening, Hermione arrived back from a long study session at the library. She was completely knackered; her brain felt fried after hours trying to decipher a particularly difficult and obscure runic pattern the class had been assigned.

The sitting room was deep in shadows, the only light coming from the fire that was already nearly out in the hearth. Only the last glowing embers and the occasional flame licking at the charred wood remained, and they cast weird, almost lurid shadows on the walls and ceiling. The room was very quiet as she entered, the only sounds the occasional spit and crackle of the fire as it consumed itself.

She had walked nearly the length of the sitting room on her way to her own bedroom door when something caught her eye. It was Malfoy. He was sprawled on his back on the sofa, one arm flung behind his head and the other trailing down, his hand touching the rug. He was sound asleep, his hair glinting in the firelight as it fell over his eyes. There was a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey on the coffee table, obviously smuggled into a private stash.

Malfoy was piss-drunk, it would seem. Hermione rolled her eyes and was about to go to her room when she noticed his face. In repose, it was relaxed and open, and there was even a slight smile curving his lips. His lashes as they rested on his cheeks were long and surprisingly dark. As she stood there, she had a sudden impulse to touch his smooth, pale skin. One slender finger grazed his cheek ever so gently.

Slowly, his eyes opened and he gazed, somewhat unfocused, at her. And then he grinned crookedly. No doubt about it, he was completely shitfaced.

“C’mere,” he whispered. “Want to tell you something.” He crooked his index finger and gave her a lopsided smile.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing, and walked around to the front of the sofa, where she sat at the opposite end, looking at him expectantly.

“No!” He shook his head obstinately. “Closer. _Here_.” He patted the cushion where his upper body lay, and slid flush against the sofa back to make room.

Slightly apprehensive, she moved closer as Draco struggled to sit up, managing to manoeuvre himself up by the elbows so that his head and shoulders now rested on the arm of the sofa. He continued to gaze at her in that muzzy, half-focused way, the firelight flickering in his half-closed eyes.

“Jus’ want to say sorry.”

“What for?” Hermione asked quietly, looking down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Being a complete arse to you, Hermia. You didn’ deserve it. You never.” He smiled suddenly, looking very like a little boy. “You’re nice.” His head flopped back against the throw pillows and he shut his eyes.

 _He’d called her Hermia._

“That’s all right, Lysander,” she answered softly. “You didn’t mean it.”

His sudden anger startled her. “But tha’s just it, I _did_ mean it. You know I did! But… but I wish…” Pained, he turned his head away and shut his eyes.

“I forgive you.”

His eyes shot open. “You _do?_ Even after all the mean things I said?”

Hermione turned and looked sharply at Draco, who, befuddled by his boozy haze, was obviously thinking about their last rehearsal. He probably wouldn’t remember a thing by the next morning.

That same sense of unreality she’d experienced earlier in the day struck her again, and she found herself nodding. Impulsively she laid her hand on his as it rested on his chest. His eyes widened at that, and then a slow half-smile quirked the corners of his mouth, and he covered her hand with his other one, curling his fingers around it and giving it a light squeeze of thanks. His hand was warm.

There was an awkward silence for a couple of moments. Eventually, not knowing what else to do, Hermione began to get up, but his hand tightened convulsively around hers and he pulled her back.

“Wait. Don’t go yet. Please,” he said softly. “Stay with me.” His grey eyes were luminous in the dying firelight.

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded again and carefully lay down alongside him, spoon-style. She found she didn’t mind at all when his arm slipped around her waist, pulling her even closer.

The firelight was mesmerising, the sitting room warm and quiet, and before long, Hermione could feel her eyes closing. Just before she fell asleep, she felt a kiss being pressed to the back of her head, and heard a whispered, “ _Hermione_.”

 

*

 

After that night, all attempts at mutual avoidance fell away, replaced by something both of them would have been hard-pressed to define. It remained unspoken-- simply a quiet, tacit acceptance of each other, though as precisely _what_ , neither was sure. Just that it was okay, and even more, that they were glad, though neither would have admitted that. It was… what it was. Indefinable. Impossible to classify. Something just birthed, still very new—and more than a little scary.

For Hermione, it was not merely the newness of their friendship, if that’s what one could call it. It was that in his cups, he had actually _apologized_ for years of cruel, cutting remarks and generally wretched treatment, and she knew that now. She hadn’t reminded him of what he’d said the next day, nor had he brought it up—she half believed he didn’t even remember it—but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

For Draco, the inner turmoil his uncensored feelings had unleashed was with him constantly, bubbling away just beneath the surface of everything he did throughout the day. Far from forgetting what he’d said, he carried it with him constantly, and it became the puzzle he was always trying to solve when he had a moment to himself to reflect. Even when he wanted to get away from it, he couldn’t—fuck’s sake, he _lived_ with the girl. He couldn’t get away from it now if he tried.

On the contrary, it seemed this particular Pandora’s box had gradually led to a certain freeing of inhibitions. Now, there were tiny touches—casual, to be sure—where before, there were none. A hand lighting briefly on a shoulder in passing. Fingers trailing lightly for a heartbeat along a bare arm. A quick shoulder squeeze, a friendly pat on the back, a momentary ruffling of hair. Such impulses were even more confusing to both Hermione and Draco, the more frequent and spontaneous they became.

And _that_ need was building again too, fueled by their détente. He found himself looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, studying her, memorising small details of her behaviour that fascinated, even sometimes annoyed him. But always, there was a keen awareness of _her_ —her scent, her erect carriage as she walked, that hair which seemed to explode from her head in a luxuriant, shiny mass that always smelled of coconut, that creamy, lightly freckled skin of hers. And oh-- those large, velvety doe eyes that she would turn his way when she caught him staring, after which she would give him a tiny, shy smile, and turn away again. He found himself waiting for that little smile.

And she was far from oblivious to his presence in that regard. She’d always known he was handsome, but for her, his looks had always been marred by all the mean-spirited sneers and arrogant smirks. Now she was seeing somebody else altogether. And with that change came an awareness of a tall, leanly muscled young man who moved with a rippling, athletic grace, extraordinary eyes that seemed to change colour depending on his mood, and hair like moonlight. But the most singular feature was his smile. It was totally new to her, because it was something she’d never been privy to before: open, warm, and infectious. He still didn’t share it often—not with anyone, really-- but when he did, its brilliance took her breath away.

 

*

 

The production was only a week away now. Rehearsals took place nearly every day, as well as meetings of various committees in charge of costuming, lighting, and scenery. The entire class was infused with a kind of electric excitement now that The Day was fast approaching. The rest of the school became accustomed to seeing the cast wandering the halls, scripts in hand, muttering lines to themselves and gesticulating.

Three days before the performance, the cast received their costumes with strict instructions not to handle them unnecessarily. They had been made to exact specifications according to what was actually worn when the play was originally performed, the seamstress for the Globe Theatre having kept incredibly detailed notes on her designs. It was a happy coincidence that she had been a Squib, and that through family connections, her journal had eventually found its way to Hogwarts. As a very rare and valuable document, it had subsequently been hidden away in the Restricted Section of the library.

 

*

 

The full dress rehearsal took place the afternoon before the performance. Everyone was to put on their costumes in their own rooms and then make their way to the Great Hall, where once again, a stage replicating the one from the old Globe had been Conjured and nearly all the dining tables Vanished.

Hermione had never seen so many different garments all meant to be part of one outfit. As she carefully lifted them out of the box, she marveled at them all and was heartily glad she hadn’t been alive in the 16th century. Stepping out of her own comfortable clothes, she sat on the edge of her bed and began pulling on the stockings. She knew that Draco was in his room, busy assembling his own outfit. She wondered how he was managing. Probably a lot better and with less fuss than she!

Stockings on and then shoes. Next came the chemise, a long shift worn under everything else and used as a nightgown as well. What next—right, the petticoat, and then the farthingale, a stiff, hooped over-petticoat which would help give shape to the costume overall. Pulling it on, she surveyed herself in the long mirror and giggled. Her bum was growing wider and wider by the minute!

Ah, now the corset, a most devilish instrument of torture for women. She slipped into it and began pulling tight the crisscrossed strings. Like the farthingale, it was stiffened with wood to get rid of any unsightly lumps a woman had. Dreadfully uncomfortable. But it definitely gave a certain… _boost_ … to a certain part of her anatomy, she had to admit, and she grinned. The idea to go and show Draco flashed through her head briefly, and then she laughed at herself and went back to the process of dressing.

The next item was the so-called “bumroll.” ‘Merlin, what do I do with this?’ she wondered, fishing out the instructions that came with the costume. “To be worn about the hips. It will give extra body to the skirt.” ‘I’ve just gained at least a stone,’ she thought ruefully. ‘Well, at least I won’t be the only one.’ For a moment, she envied Luna as Titania and the four girls playing the fairies, for their soft, body-hugging, rather ethereal costumes.

The partlet, a sort of chest covering tucked into the bodice, came next. She’d been instructed to wear it open to expose her chest, as her character was an unmarried girl. Married women had traditionally worn theirs closed. She fixed it so that her cleavage was very much in view.

The kirtle, an under-skirt, came next on the bottom half. This would show, and the costume people had outdone themselves with it. The richly embroidered material was lovely.

Finally the gown, and what a gown it was! Rich, forest-green velvet, it opened in front to reveal the kirtle and had a snug-fitting bodice that was very flattering indeed.

Stepping back, she took another long look at herself and smiled with satisfaction. She would do.

Quickly, then, she checked the time. 4:10 pm. The rehearsal had been called for 4:30.

“Malfoy!” she called, as she entered the sitting room, thinking to sit down while she waited. One attempt and that idea was scotched. Absolutely impossible. “Are you ready yet?”

“Go without me, Granger! I’ll be along in a bit,” came his somewhat muffled reply, followed by a muttered imprecation.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay in there? Need some help?” Hermione knew he had to be dressed by this time. They’d started at the same time and she was certain that a man’s outfit had to be far less complicated than a woman’s.

Her gown rustling as she walked, Hermione went to the door and knocked. “You might as well come out, Malfoy! I’m waiting for you, no matter how long it takes!”

“All right. Look, just close your eyes for a minute, okay?”

Stepping back, she covered her eyes. The door opened slowly and Hermione opened two fingers just enough to peek between them. Draco stepped out in full Elizabethan regalia, looking every inch the part. Lowering her hands, she smiled encouragingly.

‘You look wonderful!” she enthused. And he did. The period really suited him. The loose-fitting, fine linen shirt and his doublet, both of which were decorated with very detailed needlework, emphasised his well-made shoulders and chest, and were followed by breeches so soft and snug-fitting, they might have been painted on him.

And then, of course, there was the codpiece.

Hermione’s eyes were drawn to it immediately. Ornamented with fine stitch work and studded with tiny jewels, it sat, nicely rounded and replete. It was obvious that he was very generously endowed.

“Did they give you padding for that?” she teased.

Draco laughed, raising a suggestive eyebrow. “Come and see for yourself!” he answered slyly, and winked.

“I might just do that,” Hermione responded with a giggle, and then clapped her hand over her mouth in surprise, blushing. Where had _that_ come from? Draco merely grinned. Her blush had been adorable.

In fact, all of her was adorable in this costume, now that he really looked. Especially one part, which drew his eyes as powerfully as his codpiece had attracted hers. He already knew her breasts were nice—very nice, actually—but now… here was a pair of luscious pillows on which to rest his head, two high, firm, creamy mounds he could happily lose himself amongst for days at a time.

“Granger, you look… amazing!” he breathed, eyes fixed on her chest. He wondered just what the capacity of a codpiece really was. If he stared at her much longer, he had a feeling it might just burst at the seams. Well, what the hell. He moved closer. She looked good enough to eat.

As he came nearer, Hermione wondered how it was possible to feel as if her breathing had ceased altogether while her chest seemed to be heaving so obviously at the same time. Finally, he stood only a scant inch from her and then he wrapped his arms around her waist, crushing her to his chest in one swift move.

“You look delectable,” he said softly. “Absolutely delicious.”

She flushed and looked up at him shyly. His eyes were partly closed as he bent his head.

There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, in which the world stopped spinning on its axis.

And then he kissed her.

Traveling from her mouth to her jaw, and then down her slender neck to her collarbone, his countless kisses were really one long, hungry kiss that he had been waiting to take for what felt like ages. Her skin was scented and soft, and he felt as if he were drowning in its silken sweetness as he moved his lips down to the hollow between her breasts, the tip of his tongue flicking, tasting, caressing.

His gentle, nuzzling kisses were driving her wild. She wanted to feel his mouth everywhere. As beautiful as the gown was, if it hadn’t been a specially made costume, it could have been in shreds right now for all she cared.

Carefully, he moved the two halves of the partlet further aside and with his fingertips, pressed the tops of her breasts just enough so that her nipples came into view just below the top of the gown.

“Hermione…” he began. Somehow, this girl was different. He needed to ask.

“Yes, _please_ ,” she answered breathlessly.

Gently he pressed again, and her nipples popped out altogether, resting high on her chest just above the edge of the fabric. They were rosy and quite erect as he bent to take one in his mouth, swirling the tip of his tongue around it in teasing flicks before suckling hard, fondling its twin with his fingertips, and then switching to enjoy that one as well.

The sensations were heavenly. Beneath all those many layers of clothing, Hermione could feel herself becoming quite damp and slick with arousal. She pressed her thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the ache he was creating deep inside her.

“Oh gods, Draco,” she moaned. “Please, _please_ …”

Suddenly, he dropped down to his knees. Looking up at her with a saucy smile, he fingered the hem of her gown.

“How many layers do we have here, I wonder?” he mused. “Let’s see… one”… the gown. “Two”… the kirtle. “Three”… the farthingale. “Four,” he laughed, tunneling deeper under all the skirts as he added a bit of her petticoat to the rest. “Five”… the chemise. And then—

“Granger!” he said, shocked, his voice muffled from deep inside all her skirts. “You’ve got no knickers on!”

“I know.” Hermione grinned. “Period accuracy, you know. They didn’t wear any.”

He popped his head out, flashed her a delighted smile and dove back under all the way, until all she could see were his two feet sticking out below the hem of her voluminous gown.

The rumours about Draco Malfoy were, she was happy to discover, not exaggerated in the slightest. The man knew how to please. And right now, he was pleasing her in a hundred different ways that she could not even have dreamt of. Leaning back against the mantel, she gave herself over to one incredible sensation after another as his tongue moved sinuously over and around her clit and labia, and then ventured inside her, tantalising and caressing and bringing her to the edge again and again. Finally, he gripped her bare buttocks, burying his tongue deep inside, thrusting and then flicking at her clit relentlessly until she finally shattered. Weak in the knees, she sighed with pleasure as he gently lapped up her cum, soothing the ravished tissues.

Emerging from beneath her skirts-- flushed, dishevelled and smiling-- he got to his feet. But before he had a chance to wipe his mouth, she grabbed his face and kissed him, savouring the taste of herself on his lips as she did so.

“Granger!” he said approvingly, and grinned. “We’ll have to continue this later, I think.”

“Perhaps,” she said airily, and swept out of the door ahead of him. “Right now, though, we’re really _late!_ ”

Ruefully he glanced down at the sizeable bulge between his legs. Well, now he knew precisely how much a codpiece could hold. Hastily, he tugged on his doublet, covering the bit of his cock that was waving hello from the top of the codpiece, and hurried out the door.

 

 

TBC


	4. One Heart, One Troth: Part One

 

One Heart, One Troth

  


Part One

 

 

“Ssshhh!!!” “Fuck’s sake, shut it, will you?” “Quiet down, you lot! They’ll hear us!”

It was less than ten minutes to curtain and the actors were restive. They knew that any minute, Professor Fitzherbert would appear for a final pep talk. Somebody had peeked out from the recess at the back of the main, or “outer,” stage, where all the actors had gathered, and reported that the house—the Great Hall, its tables Vanished and replaced with rows of chairs—was packed.

First out would be Neville, Millicent, Colin, Seamus, Hermione, Draco, Lavender and Harry. They stood in a tight cluster, talking quietly amongst themselves, Neville occasionally wiping clammy hands on his costume and looking rather pale.

True to everyone’s expectations, Professor Fitzherbert turned up exactly seven minutes before the start of the play. He looked especially dapper in royal-blue dress robes. A tiny sapphire winked in his left earlobe.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, beaming all around. “We’ve got a full house tonight! You all look bloody spectacular, absolutely authentic. I must commend our wardrobe people for a job exceptionally well done. Scenery and props people too, of course. Marvelous. Please, everybody, stay in costume after the performance is over. I have a special surprise for you at the cast party. Now—don’t be nervous,” he smiled, looking around and then letting his gaze fall on Neville in particular. “You are very well prepared, _all_ of you. And I know you will all do me very proud indeed. Now—as the Muggles say before a theatrical performance—break a leg! I’ll be back momentarily.” He grinned, gave them all a salute, and disappeared down a side stairway and out of the stage area.

Neville wasn’t the only skittish one. Ron was looking a bit green about the gills as well. He sidled up to Harry, who was standing with Neville and Seamus, and bent his head, his voice a shaky whisper.

“Snape’s in the front row, dead centre! One look at him and I’ll freeze up, you wait and see. I’ll remember fuck-all and cock it up for everybody!” There was a wild desperation in his eyes, and he looked for a moment as if he might actually cry.

Harry slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Look, Ron—you’re talking complete rubbish! You’ll be fine. Just _breathe_ , yeah?”

Harry talked a good game, but the truth was, he was scared to death himself. He only hoped he didn’t look as sickly as he felt.

Professor Fitzherbert had reappeared and was now shepherding the starting actors towards their entry positions in the wings. A bell rang, signaling the start of the play, and there was a palpable hush as the audience turned its attention toward the stage.

Neville, Millicent, and Colin walked out and took their marks. Soon the actors in the recesses of the inner stage could hear Neville as the Duke of Athens, as he uttered the opening lines of the play:

“Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace…”

His voice quavered but then suddenly gained strength, after Professor Fitzherbert, hidden in the shadowy wings, flicked his wand, muttering “ _Recordatio!_ ” and then, “ _Ferocitas!_ ” The spells for strengthened memory and courage did the trick, and Neville began to move through his lines with ease and confidence, which in turn relaxed his fellow actors. Before long, everyone was projecting his or her lines with alacrity and poise.

Backstage, Draco sat with Blaise, Theo and Vince. They had a deck of cards and a bottle of pumpkin juice, which they were passing around, since all of them seemed to have developed a sudden case of nervous laryngitis. Suddenly, Hermione appeared, her face pale and her eyes looking almost fevered.

“Malfoy!” she hissed. “We’re ON!” She reached down and grabbed his hand, nearly yanking him off his feet in her haste to get them both to their proper place in the wings in time for their cue. Seamus and Harry were already there, waiting.

“Where the bloody hell were you, Malfoy?” Seamus whispered furiously.

“Sorry!” Draco muttered. In the semi-darkness, he felt Hermione squeeze his hand briefly, and looked down to where she still held onto him. Even now, he felt a small thrill of surprise that her hand would be in his at all, much less giving him the silent support of that warm, little squeeze.

And then there it was: their cue.

“But I will wed thee in another key, with pomp, with triumph, and with revelling!” Neville proclaimed, raising his arm high and grinning at Millicent.

Hermione gave Seamus a little shove and he burst on stage, the others a step behind.

“Happy be Theseus,” he started, “our renowned duke!”

Inclining his head slightly and smiling, Neville graciously accepted Seamus’ low bow as his natural due and replied, “Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news with thee?”

 

*

 

The first act progressed fairly smoothly, given the fact that as Egeus, Hermia’s irate father, Seamus seemed far too sanguine about the situation he was presumably really distraught over. Professor Fitzherbert had worked with him for weeks on tone and nuance and appropriate gestures, hoping to add more texture to his performance. Alas, it was not to be. Like Blaise, Seamus would never be much of an actor.

With the conclusion of the first act came Draco and Hermione’s first scene alone. It was the one they’d had the contentious discussion about, weeks before. Hermione had managed to get past Draco’s dismissive attitude towards its meaning and Draco had finally been able to work up a decently believable delivery of his lines despite his skepticism about the final conclusion to which Lysander had come. The lines had long since been memorised, the moves well rehearsed long before this night.

Now the stage was empty except for the two of them. Draco moved silently towards Hermione, standing downstage on the left, looking forlorn. Hermia had just been forbidden to marry Lysander, the love of her life, and instead ordered to marry Demetrius, her father’s choice.

He had reached her side. “How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale?” he asked, touching her face tentatively. Startled, Hermione turned to look at him. He hadn’t done that before, and they’d been over this scene countless times in rehearsal.

“How chance the roses there do fade so fast?” He continued stroking the soft skin of her cheek. Her nose was lightly dusted with tiny, pale freckles. Somehow, he’d never noticed quite how pretty they were before. They reminded him of the sprinkling of cinnamon she liked to put over the cream in her cocoa.

She reached up and covered his hand with hers, entwining their fingers.

‘Good girl!’ Draco thought. He liked that she wasn’t thrown by a sudden bit of improvisation, but could run with it, even build on it.

“Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.” Hermione looked up at him, her own eyes filling with tears, and then cast her glance downwards again.

 _Impressive_. Granger had all sorts of hidden talents, it seemed. He bit back a grin, schooling his features into an expression of melancholy.

“Ay me!” he sighed. “For aught that I could ever read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never _did_ run smooth…”

She looked at him, a tear sliding down her cheek, and waited.

“But, either it was different in blood--” he explained.

“O cross! Too high to be enthrall’d to low,” she agreed, shaking her head in dismay.

“Or else misgraffed in respect of years--” Lysander went on.

“O spite! Too old to be engaged to young.” Hermia nodded.

“Or else,” Lysander continued, shrugging, “it stood upon the choice of _friends_ \--”

“O hell!” Hermia’s frustration with the vagaries of love was obvious in the way she threw her hands up and sighed. “To choose love by _another’s_ eyes!”

Draco sat down on an ornate bench. This was, after all, supposed to be the palace of the duke. He patted the space next to him in invitation, and she sat down. “Or,” he said, “if there _were_ a sympathy in choice… war, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, making it momentary as a sound, swift as a shadow, short as any dream…brief as the lightning in the collied night, that in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, and ere a man hath power to say ‘Behold!’ the jaws of darkness do devour it up: so quick bright things come to confusion.” Lysander sighed, resting his chin in his hand. This was simply the way of love—mercurial, fragile, and brief. Could it ever be anything else?

Draco found himself wondering that too.

Hermione shook her head and smiled gently, taking his hand. “If then true lovers have been ever cross’d, it stands as an edict in destiny: then let us teach our trial _patience_ , because it is a customary cross, as due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers.” Raising his hand to her lips, she kissed his palm, her tongue darting out playfully for just a moment to taste the skin in its centre, and setting off a sudden reaction he was loathe to display. Their eyes met and she winked.

“Oh fuck!” he whispered, colouring slightly and trying to keep a straight face. “Now I can’t stand up!”

She turned her head, biting on her twitching lip.

“ _Ahh_ …A _good_ persuasion!” he said, rather too heartily. “Therefore, hear me, Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a dowager of great revenue, and she hath no child: from Athens is her house remote seven leagues. And she respects me as her only son.”

He took a deep breath, glancing down surreptitiously to check on the state of things codpiece-wise. They seemed to be calming down.

“There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee; and to that place the sharp Athenian law cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me…”

Draco looked up into Hermione’s face, searching her eyes for…he wasn’t certain what. He found that they were clear and bright, the earlier tears replaced by a warmth that smoldered like a banked fire. Feeling their heat wash over him, he suppressed a pleasant shiver, finishing, “…then steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night; and in the wood, a league without the town, where I did meet thee once with Helena, to do observance to a morn of May, there will I stay for thee.”

Hermione nodded, her smile bright as she gathered both his hands in hers. “My good Lysander! I swear to thee, by Cupid’s strongest bow, by his best arrow with the golden head, by the simplicity of Venus’ doves, by that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, and by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen, when the false Troyan under sail was seen, by all the vows that ever men have broke, in number more than women spoke, in that same place thou hast appointed me, tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.”

“Keep promise, love,” he instructed, and then, surprising even himself, he leaned in and kissed her tenderly. If Hermione had been taken aback at all, she didn’t let on. When they finally broke the kiss, she merely traced a finger lightly over his lips and nodded, a pretty blush the only evidence of her reaction.

Their eyes met for a long moment.

The audience was agog. Here was something they never thought they’d see in this lifetime. It wasn’t simply that two characters in a play had kissed. These were _Draco Malfoy_ and _Hermione Granger_ , and it was obvious to everyone that what they’d seen had _not_ been merely a stage kiss or its aftermath. They were still holding their collective breath when he turned his head, pointing, and gave Lavender her cue:

“Look, here comes Helena.”

 

*

 

Scene II took place in the house of Peter Quince, the carpenter in charge of the play that the town’s craftsmen would be putting on to entertain the guests at the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta. Owen Cauldwell, a fourth-year Hufflepuff, had the role, and now he led a company consisting of Goyle, Crabbe, Terry Boot, Theo Nott, and Stewart Ackerley, a fourth-year Ravenclaw, to discuss the tragic little play they would produce. To their relief, they managed to elicit laughs in most of the right places, and when they exited, it was with great relief that they’d got through it. From his spot in the wings, Professor Fitzherbert felt it too.

Act II was set in an enchanted wood outside Athens. Moments before his cue, Ron stood fidgeting, hardly able to breathe. Everybody would laugh at him, dressed this way! Bloody hell, a _fairy!!_ Granted, he was the chief fairy and the main character of the entire play, really, but even so! Poncing about in this daft costume! He felt incredibly _silly_ , no way around it. He paced back and forth while muttering his lines, his hands cold and clammy with nerves, eyes cast down on the floor.

 _Thou speak’st aright, I_ am _that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon and make him smile when I a fat and…fat and_ …right, beanfed!... _fat and beanfed horse beguile…neighing in likeness of a filly foal…_

He gritted his teeth, suddenly resolved. Right then. He was going to make this part _his_. He would _be_ Puck, full throttle. If they laughed, fine. He would _use_ their laughter. Puck was a trickster after all. He was _supposed_ to be funny.

He leaped out into the centre of the stage as Parvati Patil, playing the fairy called Cobweb, entered from the opposite side.

“How now, spirit!” he called. “Whither wander you?”

Applause broke out from the centre of the Great Hall, and he glanced quickly to see Fred and George, who had come especially to see the play, raising fists of support, and Ginny and others clapping. The professors quickly stifled the noise, but that didn’t matter.

Suddenly he felt much better.

 

*

 

As Titania, Luna made her entrance complete with her train of fairy attendants, played by the Patil twins, Pansy Parkinson and Orla Quirke, a fourth-year Ravenclaw who was clearly over-awed by the seventh years _and_ Professor Fitzherbert, reminding everyone of a timid, little mouse all throughout rehearsals.

With her long, blonde hair and huge, dreamy eyes, Luna was the perfect fairy queen. She sparkled as she moved, her dress floating around her in shimmering clouds of diaphanous, star-spangled material, gems and luminous stars in her hair and sparkling on her skin. On her head, she wore a circlet of finest gold shot through with silver.

Blaise as the fairy king Oberon sauntered onstage from the other side. Like Luna, his costume of close-fitting hose and a long cloak was of the same floaty, insubstantial material, luminescent colour and sparkling stars everywhere. He was bare-chested and barefoot and his cloak trailed behind him like a blanket made of the night sky. Around his head was a wreath of leaves and flowers. Every girl in the audience was struck dumb as he swept onstage.

The fairies themselves, including Puck, were similarly dressed; all had leaves and flowers woven through their hair and went barefoot, vines wound around their arms and ankles, and rings of silver on their toes.

Blaise stopped directly in front of Luna and put a hand on his hip as he surveyed her.

“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” he said, one eyebrow quirked. In the wings, Professor Fitzherbert breathed a short sigh of relief. Blaise hadn’t forgotten the mood this line was meant to convey, after all!

“What!” Luna cried. “Jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company.” She turned her back on him, her arms crossed over her chest.

Titters in the audience at the very thought of Luna and Blaise together _that way_ were immediately squelched by one deadly glance from Professor Snape.

“Tarry, rash wanton,” Blaise remonstrated, shaking his head. “Am I not thy lord?”

Luna turned her head and regarded him over her shoulder. “Then I must be thy lady: but I _know_ when thou hast stolen away from fairy land…”

By this time, the audience was utterly hooked, and listened, enthralled, to the misadventures of the fairy king and his queen as they accused each other of infidelities and argued over the rightful possession of a young child both wanted for their own retinues; Oberon finally hatched a plot to bewitch his wife with a love potion in retaliation for her refusal to give him the boy.

Meanwhile, backstage, Harry and Lavender waited for their cue. They were due to arrive in that same enchanted wood, Demetrius pursuing Hermia and Helena pursuing Demetrius in a frustrating chase.

“But---” Blaise paused and put his hand rather theatrically to his ear. “Who comes here?”

Lavender pinched Harry, whispering, “That’s us! _Go!_ ” The two of them emerged abruptly, and, taking a backward glance to be sure they were there, Blaise announced, “I am invisible. And I will overhear their conference.” He crept to the side of the stage, partly obscured by a pillar, and lay back on one elbow to listen.

Harry strode towards the front of the stage, Lavender clinging to his sleeve all the while. He attempted to shake her off, but she was tenacious and wouldn’t let go. The audience snickered as he finally pried her fingers off his arm and turned to face her.

“I love thee NOT, therefore pursue me not!”

Lavender covered her face with her hands as he continued to berate her, his voice rising. Finally, one finger pointed imperiously, he commanded, “Get thee gone, and follow me no more!”

Scattered boos and hisses erupted and somebody was heard to mutter that Potter deserved a few over-ripe tomatoes in the face. Harry heard that, and tried not to show the grin that was threatening to blossom on his face. He decided he rather liked playing this role – fun to be a real rotter for a change!

Meanwhile, Lavender was tearfully accosting him. “You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant; but yet you draw not iron, for my heart is true as steel…”

Harry’s lip curled in scorn. He was really starting to relish his character’s mean streak. “Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth tell you, I _do not_ nor I _cannot_ love you?”

“And even for that do I love you the more,” Lavender cried, reaching desperately for Harry, who jerked his arm away. “I am your spaniel; and Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you: use me as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me; only give me leave to follow you…”

Now the boos, hisses and shouts were out in the open and quite loud.

“Oi! Have a heart, Potter!” “Leave the prat, Lav! He’s not worth it!” “Get stuffed, Potter!”

Behind the stage, Professor Fitzherbert laughed quietly to himself. He hoped the faculty wouldn’t shush the students too quickly. What they were offering in responding this way was precisely the sort of reaction Elizabethan audiences gave all the time when Will Shakespeare’s plays were originally performed. It was gloriously rude and spontaneous and _involved_.

Soon after, Harry exited, followed by Lavender, at which point Blaise got lazily to his feet and called for Puck. Ron entered, stage left, with a magical flower.

Oberon’s plan was revealed: he would use some of the flower’s juice on Titania in order to pay her back for her stubbornness, causing her to fall in love with the first thing she saw upon waking. But he would also have Puck drop some on the eyelids of Demetrius, hoping with a little Otherworldly interference to bring two humans together in love.

“Effect it with some care…” Blaise warned, shaking a finger. “…that he may prove more fond on her than she upon her love: and look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.”

“Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so,” Ron answered, grinning, and scampered offstage, followed by Blaise, who swept his spangled cloak about himself and stalked away.

Luna entered, stretched, yawned rather dramatically, and lay down, surrounded by her fairy train, who sang her a lullaby, albeit rather off-key. Blaise made a great show of sneaking over to her, smirking at the audience all the while.

“Wake up, Luna!” “Look out!” Various audience members shouted enthusiastic warnings.

Blaise glanced out at the audience, and his smug grin grew wider if possible. Squeezing the imaginary juice on Luna’s eyelids, he said, “What thou seest when thou dost wake, do it for thy true-love take, love and languish for his sake: be it ounce, or cat, or bear, pard, or boar with bristled hair, in thy eye that shall appear when thou wakest, it is thy dear.” He paused. “Wake when some _vile_ thing is near.” Laughing, he vanished offstage.

The first misdeed was done.

Hermione and Draco made their entrance hand in hand as they made their escape from Athens to elope. The audience was still a bit shell-shocked from the kiss earlier and watched the two of them avidly to see what they’d do next.

Draco cleared his throat. “Fair love,” he proclaimed, slipping an arm around Hermione’s waist, “you faint with wandering in the wood; and to speak troth, I have forgot our way; we'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, and tarry for the comfort of the day.”

She replied, “Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed; for I upon this bank will rest my head.” She indicated a spot downstage fringed with fake bushes.

Draco shook his head, smiling. “One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; one heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.”

Girlish sighs were heard in the audience. Apparently, the school’s seventh-year, bad-boy heartthrob as romantic hero was too much for some to bear. Draco grinned to himself. This acting thing definitely had its perks.

Hermione had heard them too, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling. Then she caught his eye. He winked, and she decided right then that if Lysander were anywhere near as sexy as Draco, Hermia should just loosen up a bit! Reluctantly, she gave her line: “Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, lie further off yet, do not lie so near.”

Draco feigned surprise. “O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in love's conference. I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit so that but one heart we can make of it; two bosoms interchained with an oath; so then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny; for lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.” He opened his arms, a look of wide-eyed entreaty on his face, belied a moment later by the cheeky grin and the kiss he blew her when his back was to the audience.

“ _Later_ ,” he mouthed, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

The blush that swept over Hermione’s face had nothing to rival it, and he almost laughed out loud at the sight. Making her blush was even more fun now than it had been before…well, _before_. ‘Turnabout is definitely fair play,’ he thought, remembering the woefully frustrated state of affairs inside his codpiece the day before, when they’d left for the dress rehearsal.

Just the thought of “later” had Hermione feeling rather tingly indeed. She pressed her legs tightly together under the voluminous skirts of her gown, glad now for the many concealing layers, and threw him a chagrined look which clearly said, ‘ _Malfoy, not now!_ ’

She replied, “Lysander riddles very prettily: now much beshrew my manners and my pride, if Hermia meant to say Lysander lied. But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy lie further off; in human modesty, such separation as may well be said becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, so far be distant. And, good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!”

Draco was on the verge of losing it altogether, and he turned away from her adorably embarrassed expression just in time. “Ah…” he began, “Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I...”

At that, he could have sworn he heard an incredulous snort from somebody backstage who sounded suspiciously like Zabini.

He continued, his mouth twitching. “And then end life when I end loyalty! _Here_ is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!” He dropped down onto the stage several feet away from Hermione, and stretched out. The codpiece winked and sparkled in the light from the floating candles that ringed the stage and lined the walls of the Great Hall.

Carefully, Hermione sank to her knees and then half-reclined against a tree prop, pillowing her head on her arms. She wondered for a moment if she would be able to stand up again in this gown. “With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd!” she told him, and she, too, closed her eyes.

 

*

 

The second misdeed, equally disastrous in its outcome, was done when Puck mistook Lysander for Demetrius, squeezing the flower’s juice on his eyelids instead and causing him to fall madly in love with Helena. Ron moved stealthily over to Draco, smirking and waggling his eyebrows at the audience—all the while, Fitzherbert watched from the shadows backstage and cringed, wondering if he’d created a monster when he let Ronald Weasley loose on the theatre-going public—and crouched at Draco’s head, holding the fake flower above his eyes. Camouflaged inside it was a small vial.

Draco opened one eye into a narrowed slit. “What’ve you got there, Weasel?” he hissed.

“Nothing whatsoever, Malfoy,” Ron whispered back, grinning. He paused. “It won’t hurt a bit!”

Bugger the play! Draco wasn’t about to sacrifice himself just for the sake of art. His hand shot out in the pretense of stretching in his sleep, knocking the vial out of the flower. It went skittering across the stage, bouncing a few times before dropping out of sight. In the audience, Fred and George looked at each other and shrugged, rolling their eyes. Trust their little brother to bollocks it up. And it had been such a good Hair Raising elixir too, their own modifications making hair growth insidiously slow to start but very long-lasting. They’d imagined Malfoy eventually covered from eyebrow to chin. Ah well…

Draco squinted up at Ron, smiling lazily. “The flower, Weasel. Remember? _Focus_.”

Grumpily, Ron pantomimed squeezing the flower’s juices over Draco’s eyes, muttering, “Churl, upon thy eyes I throw all the power this charm doth owe. When thou wakest, let love forbid sleep his seat on thy eyelid: so awake when I am gone, for I must now to Oberon.”

He made his exit, searching surreptitiously all the while for the vial. Fred and George were going to murder him.

 

*

 

During the twenty-minute interval, the cast gathered in the backstage recesses, talking excitedly. Out in the Great Hall, tables along the wall behind the last row of seats were festively laden with cakes, biscuits, tarts, puddings, trifle, pumpkin juice, tea and coffee, with wine and champagne for the teachers if they desired it. Knowing how famished his hardworking cast must be, Professor Fitzherbert made sure that a basket of goodies was sent backstage, and predictably, they fell on it eagerly.

Draco found his cohorts huddled together in a corner. Not surprisingly, Crabbe and Goyle were wolfing down whatever they could get their hands on. Crabbe had tried on his donkey ears, which were tending to get in the way, smacking everyone who passed each time he turned his head.

“Zabini!” Theo said, taking a bite of chocolate cake and a long swig of pumpkin juice, and then mincing about, speaking in a high voice. “ ‘I have forsworn his bed and company’! Feeling a bit… _lonely?_ Missing your TITania, then?” He sniggered. This earned him a cuff on the back of the head just as he was taking another sip of his drink, knocking it out of his hand.

“Shut it, you twat,” Zabini laughed, and then his expression turned quizzical. “Malfoy.”

Draco looked up from the bowl of trifle he was enjoying. “Yeah?”

Blaise moved closer and his voice dropped. “What the bloody fuck is going on between you and Granger? Or am I imagining things? Please tell me I am.”

Draco smiled serenely. “Whatever are you talking about, Zabini?”

“Well…that kiss, for one thing! That was _not_ in the script! And it didn’t exactly look unwelcome either, I’d say. If anything, I’d say the two of you enjoyed it. Quite a lot, in fact.” Blaise folded his arms across his chest and waited expectantly.

Draco thought fast. While he was aware that the kiss was something of a red flag about the state of his and Hermione’s relationship—whatever the hell it was at this point—he wasn’t ready to start discussing it with anybody, not even his best friend. Not yet anyway.

“Oh yeah, well, you know…she’s not half bad-looking, and after that time she kissed me in class…expect I just wanted to even the score. You know, see if I could embarrass her the same way.”

Blaise looked at him, his brows knitted into a skeptical half-frown. He appeared to be considering what Draco had said. “You sure you’re not on the pull with that girl?”

Draco shook his head.

“Okay,” Blaise said slowly. But he didn’t look convinced. Draco was fairly certain there would be questions from other quarters too. Well, it was his own fault, he supposed. If only he could have been a bit more clever about camouflaging his feelings for Hermione. He could have had the kiss and kept his personal life private at the same time. But she was just so hard to resist now. He was having a hard time being slick and cool about it. How could he limit himself to a mere stage kiss when the attraction was so powerful, all he thought about nowadays was shagging her into the ground?! And it wasn’t even just about sex anymore. That was the really scary bit.

Meanwhile, Hermione was facing an inquisitorial squad from amongst her own friends.

“Hermione!” Parvati squeaked. “What _was_ that with you and Malfoy? That kiss was HOT!”

“Shit, yes!” Lavender agreed. “Are you two…?”

“No!” Hermione answered vehemently. _Not yet. Ask me tomorrow. On second thought, DON’T._

“What’s he like? Is he as good a kisser as they say?” That from Luna, who had joined the group with a dish of pudding in her hand.

Hermione laughed. “Really! How would I know? It was just the one kiss!” _Liar, liar, pants on fire…_

“Oh, I don’t know...” Lavender mused. “That didn’t look like a first-time snog to me. I bet the two of you have been going at it for a while now, in the privacy of your suite! Oh, can’t you just see it, girls, the two of them getting all _cosy_ in front of a blazing fire...” She laughed.

“Ooh,” Padma trilled, “it’s so romantic! He really is incredibly sexy, how do you stand it?”

“Well,” Hermione grinned, “I do get to see him before he’s brushed his teeth in the morning. And I find his dirty laundry on the bathroom floor. Not so terribly sexy then.” Not that any of that mattered anymore. All she could think about was what he did to her with his amazing kisses. So what if he were a bit sloppy? He was male. _Too right…_

Turning away from her friends, ostensibly to help herself to some cake, Hermione couldn’t help thinking. That kiss—it _was_ more than just an improvised stage kiss. It had meant something. She’d felt it when he’d kissed her and she’d seen it in his eyes. A tingle surged through her from head to toe at just the recollection of that moment. Oh, to have a Time-Turner right now and go forward about three hours…

She couldn’t wait.

A bell rang, the five-minute warning bell before the end of the interval. Hastily she put down her food and hurried to her place in the wings.

 

TBC


	5. One Heart, One Troth: Part Two

 

One Heart, One Troth

  


Part Two

 

Act III began with the tradesmen’s rehearsal in the enchanted forest. For his own amusement, Puck had changed Bottom’s head to that of a donkey. Predictably, Titania had awakened, seen him first, and fallen improbably and absurdly in love, exactly what Oberon had intended with his spell. The consequences would prove hilarious.

Later, the action shifted to another part of the forest. Puck stood with Oberon, watching as Demetrius and Hermia argued in the clearing, Demetrius pleading his case and vilifying Lysander, a confused Hermia defending him and pushing Demetrius away.

Oberon shook his head as a distraught Hermia stumbled away and Demetrius lay down to sleep.

“What hast thou done?” he asked Puck. “Thou hast mistaken quite and laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight: of thy misprision must perforce ensue some true love turn’d and not a false turn’d true.”

Sending Puck to find Helena, he turned to Demetrius. Harry lay on the floor center-stage, trying to be as still as he could.

“Flower of this purple dye, hit with Cupid’s archery, sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, let her shine as gloriously as the Venus of the sky. When thou wakest, if she be by, beg of her for remedy.” Blaise squeezed some imaginary drops onto Harry’s eyelids as Ron reappeared.

“Captain of our fairy band,” he announced, “Helena is here at hand. And the youth mistook by me, pleading for a lover’s fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!” Ron grinned. He’d done it, got as far as his most immortal line. And without a hitch.

A smattering of applause broke out and he swept an imaginary hat off in a low bow, stepping back to watch the proceedings, the grin still on his face.

 

*

 

Now the four lovers had reunited, but not in peace. Whereas before, the two men had loved Hermia, leaving Helena rejected, now the tables had turned, to the confusion and consternation of both young women. Nobody knew whom to trust or believe, and the two girls were now at each other’s throats as well.

Lavender turned to Hermione. “Have you conspired, have you with these contrived to bait me with this foul derision?... O, is it all forgot? All school-days’ friendship childhood innocence?...And will you rent our ancient love asunder, to join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, ‘tis not maidenly…”

Hermione replied, “I am amazed at your passionate words. I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me.”

“Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, to follow me and praise my eyes and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, who even but now did spurn me with his foot, to call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare, precious and celestial?...” Lavender sat down wearily beneath a tree and stared at her rival.

Harry and Draco moved centerstage to frame the men’s argument over Helena, leaving the girls to listen, dumbstruck, after which Lysander scorned his lover in favor of her friend. It was the scene Draco and Hermione had practiced so recently and with such emotion.

“ _Thy_ love!” Draco spat, pushing Hermione’s hand away, as they had rehearsed. “Out, tawny tartar, out! Out, loathed medicine! Hated potion, _hence!_ ”

“Do you… do you not jest?” she said, her voice trembling and tearful.

“Yes, sooth; and so do _you!_ ” Lavender put in. She stood between Hermione and Draco, hands on her hips.

Ignoring both girls, Draco turned to Harry. “Demetrius, I _will_ keep my word with thee.”

“I would I had your bond, for I perceive a weak bond holds you: I'll not trust _your_ word.” Harry shook his head and with a dismissive gesture, walked away.

Draco threw up his hands. “What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so.”

At the word “hate,” Hermione turned, stricken, gazing at Draco and then closing her eyes, her face contorted with her character’s pain for a moment. She opened them again and confronted him.

“What, can you do me greater harm than hate?” She sank to her knees, as she had done in rehearsal, looking at her lover with grief, despair and confusion. “ _Hate_ me! Wherefore? O me! what news, my love! Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?” She paused and looked away, taking a steadying breath before resuming. “I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you loved me; yet since night you left me: Why, then you left me--O, the gods forbid!-- in _earnest_ , shall I say?” She reached out to touch his cheek, and he swatted at her hand angrily.

“Ay, by my life; and never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest that _I do hate thee_ and love Helena.”

Draco looked pointedly at Hermione then, and caught her eye. In that fraction of a second, he winked, one corner of his mouth turning up in the tiniest of smiles, so fleeting that one could blink and miss it. Nevertheless, there it was. And she saw it.

Turning to Lavender with renewed energy, Hermione cried, “O me! you juggler! You canker-blossom! You thief of love! What, have you come by night and stolen my love's heart from him?”

Lavender, looking shocked, answered, “Fine, i'faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, no touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!”

“ _Puppet?_ ” Hermione shrieked. “Why so? Ay, _that_ way goes the game! Now I perceive that she hath made compare between our statures; she hath urged her height, and with her personage, her _tall_ personage, her _height_ , forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him. And are you grown so high in his esteem because I am so _dwarfish_ and so _low?_ How low am I, _thou painted maypole?_ Speak; _how low am I?_ I am not yet so low but that my nails can reach unto thine eyes!” She lunged at Lavender, but both Draco and Harry held her back and she twisted in their grip, furious and frustrated.

A wave of laughter swept the audience.

Lavender turned to Harry and Draco and held out her hands beseechingly, her eyes wide. “I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, let her not hurt me: I was never curst; I have no gift at all in shrewishness; I am a right maid for my cowardice: let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, because she is something lower than myself, that I can match her.”

“ ‘Lower’! Hark, again!” Hermione muttered, throwing up her hands in disgust and shooting Lavender a venomous look.

“Good Hermia,” Lavender said with exaggerated patience, “do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you-- save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood. He follow'd you; for love I follow'd him; But he hath chid me hence and threaten'd me to strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: And now, so you will let me quiet go, to Athens will I bear my folly back and follow you no further. Let me go. You see how simple and how fond I am.”

Hermione laughed bitterly. “Why, get you gone! Who is't that hinders you?”

“A foolish heart, that I leave here behind,” Lavender replied, casting her eyes down.

“What, with Lysander?” Hermione scoffed, folding her arms across her chest.

“With Demetrius,” was the reply.

Draco strode over to Lavender and took her arm, turning towards Hermione as toward an enemy. “Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena.”

Harry made sure to be on Lavender’s other side, taking that arm protectively. “No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part.”

Lavender looked from one handsome, young man to the other and back again. She smiled. She could definitely get used to this! And then she said, complacently from her protected position, “O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; and though she be but little, she is fierce.”

Hermione stamped her foot angrily. “ 'Little' again! Nothing but 'low' and 'little'! Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her!”

Draco waved his hand at her dismissively. “Get you gone, you dwarf; you minimus, of hindering knot-grass made; you bead, you acorn!”

Again, he caught her eye and this time, they both bit back grins as they recalled what had happened the very first time he’d said those same words to her.

Harry planted himself in front of Draco and waggled his finger at him. “You are too officious in her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone: speak not of Helena. Take not her part; for, if thou dost intend never so little show of love to her, thou shalt aby it.”

“Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right, of thine or mine, is most in Helena.” Draco gestured to Harry and began crossing the stage to exit.

“Follow! Nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole!” Harry called, and the two of them exited, leaving the girls on their own.

“You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you. Nay, go not back,” Hermione sighed, defeated, sinking to her knees under a tree downstage.

Lavender shook her head nervously and began backing away. “I will not trust you, I, nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. My legs are longer though, to run away!” Quickly she turned and ran offstage.

Hermione shrugged and sighed heavily again. “I am amazed, and know not what to say.” And then she, too, made her exit.

The audience broke into wild applause and had to be quieted by the teachers after several minutes. But it was obvious that here had been a comedic tour de force by the four young actors in one of the pivotal scenes of the play. From the wings, Fitzherbert grinned in satisfaction. They’d pulled it off brilliantly, the four of them!

 

*

 

After much deliberate confusion created by Puck to forestall a real fight between Demetrius and Lysander over Helena, the four lovers wound up exhausted and in the same general area of the wood, all of them lying down to sleep for the night.

Ron hid in the shrubbery until all was quiet, and then stole over to Draco as he lay quietly.

“On the ground sleep sound: I'll apply to your eye, gentle lover, remedy.” He squeezed the flower’s imaginary juice on Lysander’s eyes as he slept, Draco cracking one skeptical eye open just to be sure. “When thou wakest, thou takest true delight in the sight of thy former lady's eye. And the country proverb known, that every man should take his own, in your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill. Nought shall go ill. The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.”

 

*

 

The fourth act found Oberon lifting the mischievous spell from Titania and reuniting with her, and Puck releasing Bottom from the enchantment that had changed him so drastically. The weaver made his way out of the forest, convinced he’d experienced a very weird dream.

It also brought together Theseus, Hippolyta and Egeus, who discovered the four lovers asleep in the forest, woke them only to learn that both couples were now happily reunited, and bade them return to the palace to celebrate a joyous triple wedding with a fortnight of feasting, dancing and entertainments. Confused, and wondering if everything had been a dream, the two couples followed, exiting the stage.

Act V, the conclusion, featured the presentation of the play within the play, which gave the actors playing the tradesmen a chance to shine. As Bottom, Crabbe had shown surprising comedic skill, albeit mostly accidental. But he was so physically right for the part of Bottom the weaver, and so hilarious in his donkey ears as he played against petite Luna, that any lines he forgot were forgiven. Two fourth years, Owen Cauldwell and Stewart Ackerley, acquitted themselves quite well, especially considering their age, and garnered wildly enthusiastic cheers from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, their respective houses. Theo Nott, Greg Goyle, and Terry Boot rounded out the band of tradesmen who bumbled their way through the little play that was meant to be tragic, but that had both its onstage and offstage audiences in near-hysterics.

The three newly wedded couples then exited, taking themselves off to bed to enjoy their wedding night amidst receiving appreciative cheers and wolf whistles from the audience. The end of the tale belonged to the Fair Folk of the wood, as Blaise, Luna and Ron took the stage for the final scene.

Blaise was first to speak. He took Luna’s hand. “Through the house give gathering light, by the dead and drowsy fire. Every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier. And this ditty, after me, sing, and dance it trippingly.”

Luna smiled brilliantly. “First, rehearse your song by rote to each word a warbling note. Hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing, and bless this place.”

“Now, until the break of day, through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, which by us shall blessed be; and the issue there create ever shall be fortunate,” Blaise replied. “So shall all the couples three ever true in loving be; and the blots of Nature's hand shall not in their issue stand Never mole, hare lip, nor scar, nor mark prodigious, such as are despised in nativity, shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, every fairy take his gait; and each several chamber bless, through this palace, with sweet peace; and the owner of it blest ever shall in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay. Meet me all by break of day.”

Finally, Ron was left standing alone in the centre of the stage. He walked forward, crouching down to address the audience. From the wings, Professor Fitzherbert watched. ‘So Mr. Weasley has a bit of stage sense and imagination after all,’ he thought to himself, and smiled approvingly.

All eyes and ears in the audience were on Ron. Fred, George and Ginny beamed proudly. Ron could act—who’d have guessed?

“If we shadows have offended, “ he told everyone, “think but this, and all is mended: that you have but slumber'd here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, we will make amends ere long; else the Puck a liar call.”

Ron stood and opened his arms wide. “So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.”

He bowed deeply, straightening to thunderous applause. Basking in it on his own for a moment, he turned then, as the rest of the cast joined him from all the backstage entries. Standing in a line that spanned the stage, they held hands, raising them up high in the air and then bowing low in one smooth movement.

Then, parting into two halves, each half of the line swinging to one side of the stage, all held out their arms to honour individual cast members. They came in pairs to take their bows, couples holding hands as they walked down the aisle between their fellow actors, as the applause continued unabated. Everyone in the audience was on their feet now, cheering, whistling, and clapping non-stop.

Hermione and Draco came up for their curtain call last. He gave her hand a quick squeeze as they began their walk and then flashed the audience a cocky grin, garnering uproarious cheers from all of Slytherin House. Even Professor Snape had a near-smile on his face, and the approval was evident in his eyes.

Hermione’s reception from her fellow Gryffindors was no less ecstatic, and she found she simply couldn’t stop smiling. Professor McGonagall was clearly delighted, laughing with pleasure as she applauded and making sure everyone around her knew how many cast members were from her own house.

Finally, Harry stepped forward, a Conjuring spell having produced four bouquets of roses in red, yellow, white and pink. He kept the pink for Lavender, and handed the others to Draco, Neville, and Blaise, who in turn presented them to their leading ladies.

Draco chose the yellow for Hermione and her eyes widened in delight.

“How did you know?” she asked, incredulous. “That yellow roses are my favourite, I mean!”

Draco smiled mysteriously. He didn’t tell her that he had simply chosen his own favourite, hoping she would approve. “Oh, I have my ways. But I shall expect something equally sweet from you in return, you know.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up and she fought to contain a smile. “Oh, yes? And what might that be?’

Draco laughed, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Later, darling.”

Harry moved front and centre on the stage and held up a hand for quiet. The applause slowly died down and he cleared his throat, fishing a piece of parchment out of a hidden pocket.

“Thank you, everybody,” he began. “This production has really been a fantastic experience for us. I think I speak for the entire cast when I say that. But there is one person without whom none of this would have been possible: our teacher, Professor Fitzherbert. He did a great job directing the play--and he taught us so much about the period, about the play and the man who wrote it, and about the theatre in general. We’ve learnt so much about the Muggle world of four hundred years ago. This class has been a lot of fun, and we’d like to thank Professor Fitzherbert with a special gift we all chipped in for. Professor?”

Harry glanced around, scanning the audience for a sign of their teacher. Fitzherbert materialised from behind Harry, striding out from the wings to enthusiastic applause from not only his actors, who were cheering wildly for him, but from the audience at large.

Neville had disappeared backstage momentarily, and reappeared now, holding a wrapped box. This he presented to Professor Fitzherbert.

“On behalf of our entire class, thank you, Professor, for everything. Especially for making us— _me_ —feel like we could really do this and do it well.” Professor Fitzherbert held out a hand to Neville, and he grasped it.

Smiling, the professor eagerly undid the wrapping and pulled the cover off the box. A delighted grin broke over his face and he pulled out what was inside, holding it up for all to see.

It was the Second Folio of the works of William Shakespeare, reprinted and beautifully bound in rich, red leather with raised bands and gilt-embossed lettering on the spine. Inside were all of Shakespeare’s plays as well as maps and a copy of a 16th-century engraving of London. A small committee consisting of Harry, Blaise, Terry Boot, and Owen Cauldwell, as representatives of all four houses, had written to Obscurus Books in Diagon Alley, inquiring as to their current catalogue. After the owl from the manager of Obscurus had come back with an extensive list, they held a cast meeting and everyone voted. A return Owl was sent the very next day, placing the order. Everybody in the class had contributed a Galleon, which was converted into a money order at the post office in Hogsmeade.

“Oh, my word!” Fitzherbert sighed happily. “Whatever can I say to such a magnificent gift as this?” He turned to his class of young actors, all of whom were beaming unselfconsciously at him, and held open his arms as if to embrace them all at once. “Thank you, everyone! I will treasure this! Working with you has been a privilege! You were all superb, bar _none!_ ” He looked at Blaise, Neville and Ron, and grinned. “Though certain cast members did give me a few more grey hairs, I must admit. But you acquitted yourselves brilliantly in the end, and that’s what matters. Perhaps we’ve begun a new tradition at Hogwarts, eh? An annual Shakespearean production at the holidays?” He looked around at the cast and then at the audience, and they responded with a deafening round of applause.

He held a hand up, and when it had quieted down again, he continued. “One last thing. I told the cast earlier that I had a surprise for them at the cast party. If I might ask that everyone close their eyes for just a moment…”

Most everyone in the hall obeyed, curious and a bit wary. A couple of moments passed, the only sounds some feet scuffling and nervous coughs and throats being cleared. Professor Fitzherbert could be heard muttering to himself.

“Right!” he shouted suddenly. “Now… OPEN YOUR EYES!”

When everyone did, what they saw was nothing short of amazing. The rows of seats had been Vanished, the tables piled high with all manner of delicacies, hundreds of floating candles illuminated the hall from overhead, and a cheerful fire blazed around an enormous log in the hearth. But the really shocking change was that now, every single person in the room wore brilliantly rich, 16th-century reproduction clothes and a beautifully ornate mask that covered the upper half of the face. In the corner, musicians in period clothing were tuning up their instruments, ready to play whatever was requested.

“Welcome to the Yule Ball! This year: an Elizabethan Masque! Cheers, everybody!” Turning to the cast, who stood there goggle-eyed, he laughed. “Go have some fun! You’ve earned it!”

Standing back, he continued to laugh delightedly as the cast whooped in unison and rushed off the stage en masse. It truly was a sight to behold: brilliant, beautiful, and quirkily incongruous, rock music blasting and a mass of kids writhing on the dance floor in hooped gowns, doublets and hose.

 

*

 

Nearly the entire evening had passed and both Hermione and Draco had been caught up with friends from their respective houses who kept them busy, almost fiendishly so, it seemed. Every once in a while, one or the other of them would crane his or her neck and search above the sea of heads for one in particular. A couple of times, Hermione spotted a very blond head a fair distance away, but the crush was too great and she couldn’t reach him before he was swallowed up once again by the crowd. Draco was certain he’d seen those very familiar chestnut curls, but twice he’d been mistaken just as he’d been on the verge of calling to her from behind. Each time the girl had turned around and it was the wrong face behind the mask.

The band was tuning up for the last number of the evening. Hermione had finally caught a moment to herself by one of the food tables, and was quenching her raging thirst with a glass of mulled cider. Suddenly she could feel her hair being moved to the side and somebody’s warm breath tickling the back of her neck.

“Don’t move,” a quiet voice said in her ear.

Hermione smiled. “Okay.” She lifted a hand to reach behind her, but he said, “No. Just be still for a minute.”

She could feel him move closer, until he was pressed up against her as much as her gown would allow, his hands on her narrow waist.

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” he whispered.

“Me too. I could never seem to get close enough.”

“Probably for the best. We’ve already given them something to talk about. Don’t want to freak them out altogether.” He laughed softly and gave her waist a little pinch.

Hermione felt her blood quicken and abruptly felt unbearably warm in the cumbersome costume she wore. There was no doubt that his nearness had brought on the sudden rush, but other factors contributed as well: the heat generated by the huge roomful of people, the fact that she had been too excited to eat very much after the play and was now a bit lightheaded, and the very tight corset that had been constricting her breathing for hours. There was a good possibility that if something didn’t give, she might pass out in the next minute or so. She swayed on her feet a little bit and he caught her, holding her tightly.

“Granger, are you all right?” His voice had an edge of concern she’d never heard from him before.

“Take me back to our rooms, please. I think I need to get out of this costume.”

They made their way out of the Great Hall, Draco supporting her with an arm around her waist, and he didn’t care at that point who saw them. And plenty of people did, and lost no time remarking on it. The only thing he could think about was how very pale she looked.

They reached the portrait hole and Draco gave the password—“Marmite!”-- and helped Hermione climb inside. Once in the sitting room, he lost no time in divesting her of her clothing. Ordinarily a delightful prospect, right now he was just plain worried and wanted to see her breathing normally as soon as possible. He began with the tiny, pewter buttons on the back of her gown.

Before long, she stood in the centre of the sitting room, wearing only the chemise, corset, petticoat and stockings. The stiff farthingale, partlet and bumroll lay discarded on the floor, the rich gown and kirtle on the back of the armchair.

Draco peered at her, watching for signs that she was feeling a bit more like herself. Her colour seemed somewhat better and her breathing more relaxed. But there was still that bloody corset.

He began to unlace it with great care, slowly untying the strings at the very top and pulling them free. Her breasts, pushed up unnaturally high, began to relax a little bit as the ties loosened, and gratefully, she took a deep breath. He worked methodically, undoing the tightly drawn strings until he reached the bottom of the corset, and the last bit slid out of its hole. The fleeting thought struck him that strangely, he was not viewing what he was doing in a sexual way, that it really _was_ about her wellbeing. This wasn’t like him.

She sighed as he slipped the tortuous garment off her shoulders and tossed it onto the pile with the rest of her underthings. She stepped out of the petticoat and it joined the rest.

“Sit down, Granger. Let’s get those stockings off, yeah?”

She nodded and smiled tiredly.

Gently he sat her down on the sofa, and took one foot in his hand, bracing it against his thigh. Pushing her chemise up high on her legs, he hooked his index fingers around the top of the stocking on her left leg, and began to unroll it. When it reached her ankle, he pulled it off and tossed it. Then he took off the other stocking.

Seeing her like that-- two spots of pink high on her cheeks, leaning back against the sofa wearing only a single, thin garment, her bare leg raised and her foot resting on his thigh-- Draco suddenly felt his own blood begin to quicken. He’d been so busy worrying about Hermione that he hadn’t really thought about what he’d just been doing.

Now, however, as he gazed at her, it was _all_ he could think about.

She was so beautiful. He was still amazed he’d never really seen it before this whole play thing began. How could he have been quite so blind? Stupidly blind, he thought to himself.

“Malfoy…”

Hermione’s voice shook him out of his thoughts and brought him back to the present. She stretched languorously and smiled, sliding her bare foot higher up on his leg. Playfully, she wiggled her toes against his thigh, noticing how hard and taut the muscles were there. Draco was suddenly aware of how hard another muscle was becoming and he looked down quickly.

Apparently, Hermione had noticed as well. His codpiece was bulging.

“Malfoy,” she said again, very softly. “Come closer…”

He moved two steps closer and stood very still. Hermione sat up and laid her fingertips lightly on his codpiece.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said lazily. “The jewels are so tiny and they sparkle so. And the needlework is really fine. Shame you can’t wear one all the time. It suits you.”

She began playing with the lacing that attached it to his breeches on one side, idly flicking it until it began to loosen.

“What would happen if I were to untie the laces, I wonder?” She looked up at him, her eyes alight with mischief. “Are these breeches really accurate to the period?”

Draco took a deep, steadying breath, nodding.

“So… that means if I untie the laces and the codpiece opens… you’re naked underneath? I mean, your… you know…”

There was a definite gleam in her eye.

He nodded again, swallowing hard.

She reached for the lacings on the left side once again, and this time, gave them a good pull. The knot came undone easily. She gave him a sly look and ran her finger over the lacings on the right.

“You…(taking hold of the fastenings)… had your turn… (a light tug)… taking things… (second pull, a bit harder)… off me… (third pull, and the knot began to unravel)… so it’s only fair… (final yank, and the knot opened completely)… that I have some fun…” The codpiece flipped open, dangling down between his legs, revealing his bare cock standing proudly at attention. Her voice went suddenly faint and she licked her lips. “… oh MY.”

Apart from the fleeting view she'd had of Draco's, the night he'd tricked her into his bedroom by taking her book, Hermione had never before seen a man’s genitals, except in illustrations she’d found in books. They’d always looked rather strange and even a bit ugly to her before now. But _this_ —

“Oh…” she breathed. “It’s so…” She reached out and touched its firm girth experimentally with the tip of one finger. The skin stretched over it was amazingly soft, but his penis itself was so... so…

Draco grinned. “Huge? Sexy? Hard?”

She nodded, all words failing her except for one. “ _Wow_.” And then it came to her. “You’re… it’s… _beautiful_.”

Draco’s cock had been called various things in his life, but “beautiful” had never been among them. There was something terribly endearing about the innocence of this girl. It drew to the surface feelings in him he’d never known were there, certainly never had any reason to summon for any of the other girls he’d been with. Hermione was his first virgin. But rather than feeling contempt for the idea of being with one, as he had done in the past, when he’d even bothered to consider it, now he felt almost…privileged. It was like a sacred trust. He would teach her. He would make it beautiful for her. He _wanted_ to do this. If she wanted it, that is. He musn’t presume too much.

In the meantime, she had begun to stroke up and down the shaft, gently and tentatively at first and then rhythmically, and he began feeling the sensations of arousal grow almost unbearably. It felt so _good_. But he knew he would need release, and _soon_. He wasn’t sure how long he dared let her touch him this way.

Oh, caution be damned, this was just too bloody wonderful! He had to have more!

“Your mouth, Granger… use your tongue, take it into your mouth and suck on it! _Please!_ ”

She shot a quick look up at him. His eyes were squeezed shut and he looked almost as if he were in pain, but it was the pain of pleasure nearing completion and he needed it desperately.

She bent her head and opened her mouth, a bit hesitant. One lick up its length—not so bad. Another. Surprisingly, it shuddered under her tongue. She was curious and tried it yet again, this time running the tip of her tongue over the head, which she noticed had a small bubble of… oh, semen, of _course_ … beading at the tip. Intrigued, she licked it off. A bit salty, but not unpleasant. Okay. Leaning forward a bit more, she dipped her head and closed her mouth over a bit of it, running her tongue along its underside. She could feel a large vein throbbing there.

Draco groaned, grasping her head with both hands. “Fuck’s sake, Granger, don’t _tease!_ ”

Pulling away from it with a pop, she looked up, her eyes huge. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean--”

“No, no, you were doing fine, love, it’s just… just move your mouth up and down on it, the way you were doing with your hand before.” He’d begun to break out in a light sweat and his legs were starting to tremble.

She bent her head to the task again, this time with her usual single-minded tenacity.

He exploded within thirty seconds, before he’d even had a chance to warn her to pull away.

Her first reaction was extreme surprise. His cock shuddered in her mouth for what seemed like ages and finally stilled. To her credit, she gamely swallowed all of his cum, and there had been quite a lot. It ran down her chin, and he reached out and tenderly wiped it away, kissing her.

“Did… did I do okay?” she asked in a small voice.

Draco gathered her close with a smile. “You did better than okay. You were bloody brilliant!”

They sat like that for quite a while, Hermione in Draco’s lap, his arms twined around her. ‘This is nice,’ she thought. ‘So peaceful.’ And then she felt his mouth caressing the side of her neck, nuzzling her ear, his tongue flicking its lobe ever so delicately.

“Mmm, lovely,” she murmured. “More.”

Draco was happy to oblige.

Turning her in his lap so that she was straddling him, he bent his head and caught her mouth in a kiss. Instantly, the visceral memory of their last kisses—a collective memory in the brain, in the bone, in their very cells—sprang alive, and this kiss built on those others, touching on those seeds of pleasure already cultivated and ploughing them deeper, ingraining them, marking them, so that nobody else could make either of them feel precisely _this way_ , ever.

Even when they stopped to breathe, resting their foreheads together and taking short, shallow breaths, their hands were not idle. Fingertips touched, soothed, stroked-- explored hair, skin, the endless hills and valleys of cheeks and noses and chins and throats, collarbones, backbones, wrists, and forearms. They were learning, marking each other and storing what they found deep inside themselves. Their fingertips would know those places again. And their mouths would too, as each in turn trailed kisses along the pathways of the other’s skin.

Finally the time came to decide.

“Hermione,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to pressure you. If you’re not ready, we can stop.”

She looked down at her lap and then up at him, her eyes as large and liquid as a fawn’s. She answered in a whisper. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Neither do I. I want you so badly, I can hardly see straight! Let me make love to you, Hermione. Please!” He was nearly shaking with need now, as he reached for her hands.

“Yes!”

That one small word was a blessing, a benediction. An opener of worlds. He smiled with relief and joy, muttered a quick contraceptive spell, and reached for the drawstring of her chemise. When he had pulled it all the way out and the neckline had opened, he slipped one side down, baring her small shoulder, and bent his head to kiss her there. The kiss burned and made her shiver and she tried to reach for him. But he held her hands still in her lap, and simply kissed her—again and again and again, his mouth soft and sweet, his tongue lavishing long strokes along her neck and jaw and collarbone, his teeth nipping not quite enough to really hurt but enough to leave small marks.

And then, as he took her mouth in a ravishing kiss, she felt the chemise slipping down further, until her left breast was bared, his hand cupping it first and then fondling it until its peak was hard and erect.

“Hermione,” he moaned, and pressed his mouth to her breast, covering it with a million tiny kisses, and finally— _finally!_ —coming to her nipple, which had been aching for this touch. He took it into his mouth, so warm and pliant, and suckled deeply. She held his head there as his tongue curled around the hard little nipple and then he bit down gently. A pang of pleasure shot down deep inside her and she cried out.

Swiftly, he yanked the chemise the rest of the way down, baring both her breasts, and then pulled it all the way to the floor. _There_. Nothing left to hide now. And she was exquisite, lovelier than he had imagined in his wildest fantasies. Not unflawed, but perfect in another, better way. Hastily, he stripped off his doublet, shirt, and breeches, flinging them away. And then he stood in the light of her frank gaze.

She opened her arms and he went to her gladly, scooping her up and carrying her to his bed.

The feel of skin on skin, finally, was electric. They held each other and rolled over and over, drinking deeply of each other’s mouths, pressing together as closely as they could, and it never seemed quite enough. One of his hands was tangled in her hair; the other pressed against the small of her back and then slipped down to her buttocks, drawing her ever closer so that she fit against him as if they’d been born to lie in each other’s arms this way. His fingers slipped between her thighs and stroked her most secret places, feeling her heat and her wetness growing, remembering the sweet saltiness of her taste from the day before, wanting that again. And so he took her sweetness for himself, thrusting with his tongue and then soothing with it, driving her to the breaking point until she came apart in his arms, shuddering uncontrollably with the pleasure of it. And then there was nothing left but to come together in one final way.

“Are you ready, love?” he asked softly, positioning himself over her, the tip of his cock gently teasing between her thighs.

She still throbbed with want. She _needed_ him inside of her.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Oh _yes_.”

And with that, he slid inside, her slick channel welcoming him, and there was no pain at all, just a sense of that last puzzle piece clicking into place. He stayed very still for a couple of moments, giving her time to adjust to the feel of him so deep inside her, and then,very slowly at first, he began to move.

Undulating, he set a rhythm that gradually intensified with the force of his thrusts. Instinctively, she’d wrapped her legs around his waist and now clutched his shoulders as he moved, rocking her own hips to his rhythm, moving up to meet him as he buried himself ever more deeply inside her.

He was nearly there, _oh gods_ , so _close!_ Sweeping her up from the bed, he crushed her to his chest as he pistoned into her, the bed banging into the wall with the force of their coupling.

He shattered very suddenly, the enormity of it leaving him feeling boneless and utterly sated. Gathering her close, he rested his head against her shoulder, and realised he was crying. This had never happened to him before. And then he looked at her, and saw that she was crying too, but her tears were belied by the most radiant smile he had ever seen.

“Thank you,” he whispered, raising himself up on his elbows and gazing down at her lying on his pillows, her lovely, wild hair spread out like a fan. “For… for…” He couldn’t find the words. For the first time, erudite, urbane Draco Malfoy was utterly speechless.

Her eyes widened. In answer, she drew him close and held him, her fingers idling in his soft hair and moving lightly over his back, soothing and gentling.

 

*

 

The costumes were boxed and returned to Professor Fitzherbert in the last class before the winter holidays. Everything was checked and counted and inventoried before the costumes were put away, to be safely stored for a future production. It all tallied, except for one small item. It was a codpiece, an exceptionally handsome one with fine stitch work and small, jeweled pins scattered like stars on its dark field. Nobody knew what had become of it and the young actor who had worn it professed complete ignorance of how it had got lost, though Professor Fitzherbert had a sneaking suspicion to the contrary. The school had emptied for the holidays, with a very few exceptions, two of them being the Head Boy and the Head Girl. Fitzherbert would have laid heavy odds that there was a naughty-looking item hanging like a talisman from a bedpost or perhaps a mirror frame in the Heads’ suite.

It would have been a very safe bet.

 

 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve put together a Pas de Deux picture album in two parts, following this chapter. Odds and sods of all sorts, to do with the story. It will be up soon.
> 
> Many thanks to Floorcoaster, for her careful and thorough beta read! I really appreciate it, Laura! Hugs and flowers to you!
> 
> Thanks, next, to the supremely talented Moonjameskitten, who created the magnificent banners heading each chapter. Moonie, you’re amazing and your breathtaking artwork has really enriched my story! Hugs, plus some dark chocolate and peppermint especially for you!


	6. Pas de Deux Picture Album, Part One

Pas de Deux Picture Album I

 

  


  


The Playbill, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

 

Marvelous manips by Moonjameskitten

 

  


 

  


 

  
Scrumptious Draco in period clothing!

 

  
Lovely Hermione

 

  
First Folio, published in 1623

 

  
Publisher’s Facsimile, Reproduction of Second Folio, and portrait of the playwright

 

The Globe Theatre, Bankside, Southwark, London, where I saw a magical production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” At the Globe, there is a fantastic museum exhibit in addition to the actual theatre itself.

  


[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=globeext7-top.jpg)  
Photo by Kieran Lynam

  


  


[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0640.jpg)  
Elizabethan undergarments, such as Hermione had to struggle into beneath her frock, before she took the stage as Hermia

  


[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0644.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0646.jpg)  
The sort of clothing Queen Elizabeth I would have worn, and a typical courtier’s outfit

  


  


 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0648.jpg)  
A recreation of the hearthside where washing, fine stitchery, ironing and mending would have taken place in the 16th century

  


 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0649.jpg)  
We saw the play as “groundlings,” meaning we stood in the yard very close to the stage and saw everything up close. Very much the original Elizabethan audience experience, complete with cheers, boos, and lots of other interaction between the audience and the actors. As I watched, I couldn’t help picturing Hermione, Draco, Ron, Harry, Lavender, Blaise, Luna, Neville, and the others doing those same lines.

  


 

Views of the Globe’s ornate painted interiors: the murals in the balconies, the ceiling above the stage, and the roof and the upper portion of a column

  


  


[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0655.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0650.jpg)

  


[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0656.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0657.jpg)

  


[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=IMG_0661.jpg)  
The “moon,” as it was recreated for this fanciful play

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Huge thanks to the wonderful Floorcoaster, who had the necessary software to take the words and the “parchment” I chose and put them together to make the actual playbill for me. Laura, what would I do without you? *Hugs*
> 
> The second picture album is up. Enjoy!


	7. Pas de Deux Picture Album, Part Two

Pas de Deux Picture Album II

 

The Globe Theatre, cont.

 

  
Front view of the stage

 

  
View from off to the side a bit

 

  
A production in progress

 

  
A packed house!

 

 

Period Clothing

 

  
What Queen Elizabeth might have worn to a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”

 

  
The Queen, her courtiers, and one miscreant!

 

  
A codpiece in evidence!

 

  
…and one in hiding…

 

  
Two noblewomen, including Gwyneth Paltrow, from “Shakespeare in Love”

 

Threw this next one in because it covers roughly the same time period and besides, I love Billy Crudup! He’s amazing in this film! (what is it about those open, loose shirts…??)

 

  
Claire Danes and Billy Crudup in “Stage Beauty” 

 

 

Play Images

 

This isn’t strictly from “AMND,” but to me, it really captures the essence and spirit of the play. The painting, entitled “Spring,” is by Pierre-Auguste Cot and it was done in 1873.

 

 

  
Original Arthur Rackham illustration of fairies in “AMND”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Nothing belongs to me except this story idea and original characters. It’s meant to be just a bit of pre-DH fun, and as such, is not HBP-compliant. I make no money from this story.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my wonderful betas: floorcoaster, kazfeist, and mister_otter!
> 
> Props and huge thanks to the brilliantly talented Moonjameskitten, who was (very happily for me!) inspired by the story to make the magnificent banner featured at the opening of the chapter. I am thrilled beyond words that she's made such a breathtaking piece of art for my story! Thank you, Moonie, and brava!!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.


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